Beanna
by libertiny89
Summary: Following the interrogation with Vernon Roche, she makes her decision. But impulsive choices, seemingly so insignificant at first, have far-reaching consequences. [Witcher 2 novelisation]
1. Chapter 1

A/N: 26/10/2015: Hello =) thanks for visiting. I was hesitant to write an OC Witcher story (especially a novelisation) because the characters are already so gritty in their own right! Alas, I ignored my own advice. I hope you enjoy Part One (creatively titled "Flotsam"). I know bulk posts aren't the traditional fanfic way... Anyway, enough jibber-jabber!

Disclaimer: I don't own The Witcher - only Rusa.

* * *

Those fleeting moments before waking up have to be some of the most peaceful. That drowsy, floating feeling one experiences before slowly opening the eyes and taking in the day. Sunlight seeping through the curtains, bathing in the warmth, the silk bedspread soft against the skin.

But this was simply a memory of a previous life, a life now drastically changed. Again. The nostalgia for it almost made Rusa retch. It was overwhelming, like a punch to the gut. Of course, reality was less poetic.

Now fully awake Rusa was more than aware that the retching and 'nostalgic' punch to the gut was in fact very real. Painfully real. As it had been the three times before. Or was it four? She'd lost count. The guard stood to the side, his pustular face leering at her as she crawled to the corner of the cell. She leaned against the wall and glared at the man. That face! That disgusting, hideous skin that she'd delight in tearing apart. He drew nearer to her and raised a fist. Instinctively Rusa made to shield herself but remembered she was shackled. It also dawned on her then that she was no longer chained to the makeshift gallows in her cell.

She threw the guard a look of contempt then squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself for the blow. When nothing came, she refused to relax. _Scare tactics_ , she thought, and tensed her body even more. Another moment passed and Rusa hesitated. She didn't want to open her eyes and have to stare into that face, which had waited just long enough for her to drop her guard before striking. _He was a filthy coward after all._

A shuffling of feet caught her attention and she tuned in to the murmuring outside the main door of the dungeon. A thought flashed through her mind—she, a loyal servant of the La Valette family, trusted advisor and friend to the Baroness, was currently being stripped and beaten in the La Valette castle dungeon by some idiot. She could've laughed at the irony had she not just lost her home and the closest thing she had to a family. The thoughts started tumbling; where was the Baroness? Anaïs and Boussy? Her stomach twisted as she pictured Aryan lying in a pool of his own blood. Stubborn fool. Perhaps he still lived? No, the children. Think back. She'd been instructed to take them to the solarium. When they reached the monastery she left them in the care of…whom? Tailles? After numerous blows to the head her memory was fuzzy. Yes, it'd been Tailles and whilst Rusa left the children with him she ran up to solar to see if it was safe. _A few moments, Tailles, then follow over the bridge with the children_ , she'd said. The solar itself was empty except for a solitary blind monk on the top level. Secure and warm, it was the ideal place to hide the children. She had told Tailles to meet her back in the monastery. She needed a moment with the children. To say her goodbyes…

Rusa opened her eyes to find she was alone again in her cell. Not entirely alone in the dungeon, however. She had the pleasure of sharing it with the witcher, someone the guards enjoyed beating more than her. The way the cells were positioned she couldn't see him but presumed he still remained. Probably unconscious again. Rusa wished the same fate. She'd _been_ happily unconscious before that pig showed up again. How long had they been here? She'd arrived before the witcher but not by long. It felt like an age but she guessed no more than two days at the most.

The murmuring outside stopped and she finally let her body relax. Inevitably short-lived, of course, but she'd take what she could get. She uncoiled herself from the corner and groaned when the main door swung open. She'd only just managed to push herself up the wall into a less vulnerable position when a blonde woman unlocked the cell door and led her to the table in the middle of the room. Rusa noticed the woman was one of the Blue Stripes. Her insides started to churn. She'd heard much about them and none of it comforting.

The blonde secured her to a chair and stepped to the side. Rusa chanced a glance at the soldier whose eyes remained fixed on the door. Even in the dim light of the dungeon the woman's beauty was startling and Rusa found herself slightly taken aback. What was a woman like her doing here? In this dungeon? Obviously a high-ranking member of the Blue Stripes. And then a small voice inside her head, fed up, exhausted but screaming: _what the hell is going on!_ _Never mind the soldier woman, what the hell am I doing here!_

The main door opened with such force that Rusa almost jumped. Another Blue Stripes sauntered in. _The_ Blue Stripes. Vernon Roche. She knew him, of course, as did most people. She'd also _seen_ him on the bridge before…

Roche gave a quick nod to the blonde woman who dutifully left the room, job done. In desperation Rusa looked at her beseechingly, woman to woman. _Don't leave me alone with him_. The blonde gave her a quick glance as she closed the door. Nothing. Rusa expected no less from a soldier loyal to her commander but the blatant indifference really stung.

"I don't believe we've been formally introduced." The commander held out his hand across the table. "Vernon Roche."

Rusa flashed him an insincere smile. "Very clever," she said. Her hands were bound and he knew it. He'd _ordered_ it. She'd heard much about this man from the Baroness and Aryan. Some peasant who rose up quickly through the ranks to become Foltest's number one lackey. Some whoreson. Literally, the son of a whore, according to Aryan.

She'd make her own judgments, however. They always got her by in the past. After all, the Baroness and Aryan weren't the ones trapped in this dungeon. Rusa would make her own judgements and these would keep her alive.

"I'd remove your shackles but the men say you enjoy them."

She hated him.

"Clearly your men have no experience with women and pleasure, commander," she retorted. Pain shot up the side of her face as she spoke, a friendly reminder of all the punches she'd received. She imagined she looked swollen and bruised and filthy. Roche stared at her evenly. His gaze was unnerving and Rusa was beginning to regret talking back. Eventually he leaned back in his chair and nodded.

"They're not _my_ men but I'll take your word for it," he said amiably, turning slightly in his seat. "Ves!"

The blonde woman from before returned and looked at Roche expectantly. He gestured towards Rusa.

"Unshackle her." Ves gave a curt nod and did as she was told. The relief Rusa felt as her hands were freed was almost too much. Just as before the soldier left without a word. Roche leaned back over the table.

"You'd have already heard from the guards but allow me to bring you up to speed. Foltest, King of Temeria, is dead. His throat was slit. The witcher was found standing over his dead body." Pleasantries aside, Roche could no longer hide his disdain. Rusa simply stared at him. She'd overheard talk of Foltest's death but didn't know the details. The information was difficult to digest on the spot. She glanced over at the witcher and saw he was still unconscious.

"The witcher's a suspect, of course," he continued. "However, you were in the solarium before the murder took place. _You_ were on the other side of the bridge before…"

Rusa pursed her lips impatiently. "The dragon. Before the dragon," she snapped. It sounded absurd. It _was_ absurd. But it had happened.

Roche studied her intently. His eyes were dark and unreadable, completely opposite to hers. Light green and expressive, even in the soft light of the dungeon her eyes made her feel exposed. Maybe they were too swollen to betray any emotion.

"You were standing on the other side of the bridge," Roche said calmly. "You saw us coming—Geralt, Foltest, and myself. You were running towards us. Returning to the monastery. We saw each other seconds before the bridge collapsed." That part Rusa remembered as clear as day. How could one forget? Roche got up, paced a couple of steps then stopped.

"I jump too far ahead. First, you must tell me your name."

Rusa snorted. She _must_ not do anything for this man. But she wasn't stupid. Resigned, she spoke. "My name is Rusa Elyot. Faithful servant and humbled friend to Baroness Mary Louisa La Valette and family for six years." She left it at that. Roche was unimpressed. He gestured impatiently for her to continue. Rusa hesitated, unsure of how much to divulge. What did it matter anyway? He'd get what he wanted.

"During the siege of La Valette castle, I was instructed to take the children to the solarium. After securing their safety I started my way back to the monastery, as you said. You already know the rest. The dragon flew overhead, breathed fire—landed on _you—_ the bridge started to collapse, and I ran to the monastery gates. The witcher had run towards the solar with your king. You'd disappeared. I thought you dead."

Roche smiled at her lack of concern. "I'm not so easy to kill."

"Clearly."

"You returned to the monastery and ran into my men."

Rusa pressed her lips into a thin line. "Obviously."

He nodded and seemed to consider his next line of questioning. In the moment of silence Rusa studied his face, grim and battle-scarred from years of service to the king. _And to himself_ , if the stories of him actually _enjoying_ hunting non-humans were credible. They probably were. For a brief moment, she panicked.

If the commander was aware of Rusa's scrutiny he didn't show it. _Most likely he enjoys it_ , she thought. The man clearly thought highly of himself. No doubt he was incredibly good at his job and he knew it. She hadn't missed it before though, the brief wavering of his voice when he mentioned Foltest's death. Apparently Vernon Roche had feelings.

"I've kept you alive for one reason only," he said. "Your next answer will decide the fate of the witcher in that cell. I suggest you choose your words wisely. I've already heard his side—you were asleep at the time—"

"I was beaten unconscious."

"Now that you're awake, you'll tell me your side. You'll tell me the truth. Was there someone in the solarium other than you and the children?"

Rusa couldn't hide her surprise. Yes, yes there was the monk—the blind monk! The question was so obvious. An answer to something so simple determined whether the man in the cell next to her would live or die? She felt a surge of energy but quickly checked herself. The witcher had just killed many of her friends. Possibly Aryan. Maybe the Baroness. He was the enemy. Did she want him to live? She thought of the Baroness. Mary Louisa would show him mercy. Rusa would do the same despite her misgivings.

Suddenly something occurred to her.

"The blind monk. Where is he?" It was Roche's turn to be surprised. Rusa continued hurriedly.

"Did he escape?" Her words tumbled out carelessly. "How could he have escaped? The bridge collapsed. There's only one way in and out of the solar—apart from the window on the upper level. Where the hell is he? And _where are the children?!"_

Roche held up a hand. "You've saved a man from certain death."

She let out a breath she didn't realise she was holding in. "The children. You must tell me where they are. I gave you what you wanted. _Please_." She couldn't believe she was pleading with this man. But he and Foltest had come for the children. She wanted to believe Roche was also concerned for their safety even if the concern was simply pragmatic.

"They're safe."

Rusa noticed the strain in his voice. He wasn't telling her everything. She decided to push him one more time. " _Where_ are they safe?"

Roche stared at her for what seemed like an age. His silence said more than any words could. Rusa felt herself losing hope. Finally, he spoke.

"I'm hoping you can help me find out."

A rustle in the witcher's cell caught their attention. Rusa wondered if he'd been awake all along. She wondered if he knew she'd just postponed his death. Still strapped to the gallows, he lifted his head ever so slightly to survey the scene in front of him.

"Nice to see you're awake, witcher," said Roche. "Good, you need to hear this." Geralt stayed silent, seemingly content on watching the interrogation play out.

"Miserable company," Roche muttered, and turned his attention back to Rusa. "Know that I don't _need_ your help, of course. It would simply make things…easier. For all of us."

Rusa snorted. She was getting tired of his games. "I gathered. So, let's get to it. I accept. Because—and this may come as a shock, commander—I don't actually want to rot in here for the rest of my life."

Roche almost smiled. "Oh, no danger of you rotting. You'll hang."

"Marvellous."

"Isn't it? I'd even take time off to attend."

"Look," snapped Rusa, "we both want to know the whereabouts of Anaïs and Boussy. Just tell me what I need to do."

Roche nodded. She was cooperative, at least. _And infuriating as fuck_.

"I need two things from you. As you so eloquently explained, you don't want to die so I expect you to be successful. First, Geralt will go with you to find the Baroness. Yes, she still lives. Currently getting acquainted with some rather unpleasant instruments, I believe."

Rusa almost choked. This man had the uncanny ability to lift your spirits and then completely destroy them all within the same sentence. But the Baroness was alive…

"I need you to find her," Roche continued, "and get her to tell you where the children are. She trusts you. Second, you'll make sure the witcher gets out of here _without_ a massacre occurring. You'll lead him to the docks. I assume you know these dungeons reasonably well."

Rusa didn't fail to notice that she herselfwasn't included in the escape plan. She was entirely expendable in Roche's eyes. Not that it mattered. She'd stay with the Baroness once they found her.

"You'll get your information, commander, and the guards will know nothing of the witcher's escape."

Roche gave her a cold stare, no longer ignoring the nagging feeling he'd felt throughout their entire exchange. This woman did not speak like a serving-girl. Despite her bruised and bloody face, she did not _look_ like a serving-girl. Nor did she hold herself like one. Roche had known all along. Either way, it concerned him not. She would reunite with her mistress and he would be rid of her. He slammed his hands on the table and stood up in one swift movement.

"We have an arrangement, then," he said and dangled a set of keys in front of his prisoner. Rusa went to grab them before he snatched his hand away.

"Ask politely."

"Give me the keys."

"Unseemly manners for a servant," Roche said simply. He noticed her stiffen slightly. He'd been correct in assuming she was no mere handmaiden. Satisfied, he dropped the keys on the table and without giving her another look, left the room.

Rusa waited until she heard the final bolt of the door and practically leapt at the keys. She could hear the witcher shuffling expectantly and wasted no time in explaining how things were going to happen.

"The torture chamber is down the corridor, third door on the left," she said quickly, unshackling him. "We need to hurry! You will take out the two guards on the other side of that door— _don't_ kill them."

Something about the way she spoke… A memory tugged at the corners of Geralt's mind, shadowy and distant and…unreachable, as so many of his memories seemed to be now. He let it pass by, untouched.

Disposing of the guards was an easy task. Rusa felt absolutely nothing for them as they lay sprawled out of ground. They were pathetic. _Just following orders_ , a voice reminded her. Right. Instructed by _him_.

"This way," she beckoned as Geralt grabbed some kind of club. Rusa hesitated. She knew these tunnels well enough to avoid a massacre. Possibly. She didn't know how many soldiers were roaming around. Geralt answered her doubts with a simple shrug. _Just in case_ , it said. Rusa couldn't argue with that. She turned to make a dash down the hall and inhaled sharply. _Black feathers_. The faint light of the tunnel illuminated them, casting grotesque shadows across the cobbles. Bile rose in her throat. The scene was painfully familiar. Fire, the clashing of armour, blood spilling, the guttural sounds of children dying by the shaking hands of those they trusted, mothers, in turn, beseeching their lovers to do the same…

Rusa felt the witcher pull her out of sight.

"Nilfgaard," he said. She nodded absently and forced herself to relax. She winced at the familiar scratch in her throat, the scratch that stabs the windpipe when suppressing a cry. Geralt said nothing as she composed herself. It wasn't his place.

"Yes," she breathed and leant against the wall for support. She looked down at the club in Geralt's hand. "You made the right decision." Both turned as someone spoke.

"I am Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen, emissary of the Empire of Nilfgaard and its most divine Emperor Emhyr var Emreis…"

Rusa seethed at the sound of his voice. It was the voice of all diplomats—insincere, pretentious, condescending beyond belief.

"What do you want of me, Nilfgaardian?"

Rusa smiled. This voice she knew well.

"Simply to speak, m'lady," Shilard offered.

"Ah, really…? Something you would not dare were my son still alive."

Rusa shot Geralt a look. She already knew. In her heart, she knew Aryan was dead. Having it confirmed did nothing to alleviate her sorrow. And the Baroness! She'd lost everything.

No. _Ana_ _ï_ s _and Boussy_. Stay focused. The Nilfgaardians were leading the Baroness further down the hall. Rusa watched, completely baffled, as Geralt peered around the corner and gave a small nod.

"We're to accompany them."

"What?"

"Come on."

She followed Geralt to the dungeon armoury and gripped his arm urgently."I hope you know what you're doing."

Geralt turned to her as he opened the door. "You need the information," he reminded.

Rusa adjusted her eyes to the natural light of the armoury. She pushed past Geralt and threw her arms around the Baroness. Surprisingly, the guards made no attempt to stop her.

"My Lady!" Both bodies were bloody and battered but neither woman cared. For the briefest of moments they were completely alone. The Baroness spoke hurriedly.

"Dearest, I cannot tell you—"

Rusa's head cracked against the wall. A guard grabbed a fistful of hair and locked an arm around her waist.

"Unhand her!"

"Please, please m'lady," spoke Shilard, giving a quick flick of the wrist. Freed, Rusa rushed to the Baroness's side. Shilard turned to the witcher.

"Come in, Master Geralt. Allow me to introduce the Baroness La Valette, mother to the royal children, who at present mourns the passing of her eldest son…" Rusa placed a steady hand on the Baroness's shoulder and squeezed lightly. It was all she could do. They could not mourn here. Shilard continued, his lazy voice laced with that toxic mixture of eloquence and feigned concern.

"I comfort the Baroness with assurances that House La Valette needs suffer no more, its future brighter as it stands protected by the Empire of Nilfgaard."

Rusa's grip tightened. When she realised her knuckles were turning white she quickly removed her hand. She didn't want to panic the Baroness. She didn't want her to know that she felt like vomiting up her insides. What was she _hearing_?

Mary Louisa turned to Geralt. "Did you kill my son Aryan?"

"M'lady, I killed many during the assault, not just your son," he replied. "War demands sacrifices—you might remember that the next time you're about to start one." Rusa stared at him incredulously. The witcher killed Aryan. She should have known.

Shilard cut in. "Have some compassion, Master Geralt. The Baroness requires support, she is distraught as it is…"

"M'lady, I wouldn't trust the ambassador if I were you," Geralt countered. "I didn't know your son, but I know he saw the Empire as a foe, as did King Foltest." Rusa couldn't hide her surprise. She knew witchers were 'neutral' but this one was just bursting with contradiction.

"My duty is to Foltest's children, their safety," the Baroness said evenly. "And though I, too, see the pact with Nilfgaard as a pact with the devil, I feel I have no choice."

Rusa couldn't focus anymore. So the children were safe. They were safe. With Nilfgaard. The children and the Baroness were in the hands of the Empire. The Empire Rusa had lost everything to, as had so many.

"The Ambassador questioned your guilt in relation to Foltest's death, Master Geralt," continued Mary Louisa. "I, too, believe you did not slay the King." Rusa and Geralt exchanged looks.

"Your Excellency, you will aid the witcher to escape the castle," she said and then hesitated.

There are times when one can pinpoint exactly the moment of heartbreak. You _feel_ it; the treacherous knife pierces straight through the soul, leaving it wounded, messy and bleeding. A mere pinprick or a gaping hole, it never completely heals. Each stab leaves the heart withered and tired. Rusa felt it then. Separation was imminent. From the woman in front of her whom she adored like a mother. From the children she'd come to love as her own. This castle, _her home_.

"My servant, Rusa, will accompany him. She is not needed in Nilfgaard."

Rusa wanted to scream. _She's doing this to protect you_ , countered the little voice. But that didn't stop the onslaught of emotions. That didn't stop the searing sense of complete and utter abandonment. The Baroness looked up at her and gave her a small, sad smile. It said more than words ever could.

"That is my wish."

Rusa wanted to weep. But she would not dare in front of _them_. The vile Nilfgaardians who'd stolen her life away from her again. She would not give them the satisfaction. She went to leave the room.

"I know these tunnels better than anyone. I can get us out." Rusa turned once more to the Baroness, both women knowing this was where their lives separated indefinitely. "I'll never forget all you've done for me."

* * *

With Rusa's knowledge of the tunnels it took little time to reach the docks. It'd taken every ounce of her strength to not just let the witcher go on a rampage. They deserved it. Each and every one of those horrible men—they all deserved it. She could see the boat ready to set sail, upon which paced Roche's impatient silhouette. Geralt placed a hand on her arm to draw her attention.

"You can't stay here," he said simply. Rusa stared back at him, cold and emotionless.

"I can take care of myself." She gestured towards the dock. "Your ship awaits."

"I don't doubt your abilities. And I'm certainly not saying you'll be better off with us, but I don't see you have a choice."

"Us? What, with that sadist who enjoys torturing young women, and the witcher who murdered the man practically a brother to me, along with countless others whom I considered friends? I think not."

"There's nothing for you here."

Rusa closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. She didn't need to be reminded that she'd just lost everything— _everyone_ —she held dear in only a couple of days!

"Vernon will stop at nothing to find Foltest's children," he continued. She knew what he was doing. And he was right. She had nothing and nowhere to go. She felt pathetic.

" _Vernon_ ," she spat, "cares not for the children's well-being. All he wants is to see the blood of Foltest on the Temerian throne. Their health and happiness are of no concern to him. Besides, they're with Nilfgaard now. As safe as they can be given the situation." The words felt traitorous on her tongue. Geralt tilted his head slightly.

"You don't believe that."

"Geralt, hurry!"

Rusa spun around to see a redheaded woman running towards them. She stopped several paces from where they stood. Alarm bells sounded off from the prison as torches lit up the grounds. News of their escape had travelled fast. Geralt grabbed her arm, more forcefully this time.

"Come with us."

"Bring her, Geralt. Come on!" The redhead started running back to the ship. Rusa hesitated then shook her arm free and ran after her, Geralt close behind.

Unsurprisingly, as soon they stepped aboard, Roche let loose a torrent of abuse.

"For fuck's sake, Geralt! Anyone else?" He gestured around them theatrically. "One of the guards, perhaps? Some whores for the voyage?" He swung around and pointed at Rusa, stepping closer than she'd have liked.

"You," he snapped, " _you_ were to tend to your mistress, get the information, see the witcher to the docks, and _leave_."

Geralt tried to cut in. "Vernon—"

"I did everything you asked!" yelled Rusa. "I don't _want_ to be stuck on this goddamn ship with _you_ but I've little choice. The Baroness and the children are now under the protection of the Empire. You and your Temerian zealots allowed this to happen!"

The redhead glanced uneasily at Geralt. Roche looked absolutely irate.

" _Vernon_."

" _What_ , Geralt?"

"There are more important things to argue over right now," he said softly. "Learn anything new about the kingslayer?"

Roche stepped back, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"A week ago, I got a message from an informer in Flotsam. He saw Iorveth in the company of a large, bald man, not unlike the one you described."

Rusa thought of the blind monk. The monk. Clearly the man wasn't blind. He was definitely larger than the average man even underneath the robes. Bald, though, she hadn't been able to tell.

"A week ago?" Geralt asked. "Sounds like a cold trail to me."

"We need to start somewhere," Roche snapped. "The trading post is a few days up river, in the forests that lie on the Aedirnian border. Iorveth's territory."

Geralt shrugged. "Flotsam it is then. Triss," he turned to the redhead, "I'm a bit beat up. Will you look at my wounds?"

Triss nodded and the two went below deck, Geralt mumbling something about a 'Yennefer'. Rusa watched as Roche began to pace the upper-deck. He looked in deep thought, a heavy frown set on his face. Several times he turned as if to say something then checked himself. She could see him wrestling with his patience. She had information he needed—only a little but enough to have him trying to control his temper. Of course, the witcher also had this information but she chose to ignore this. It was the only bit of satisfaction Rusa had felt in days and she clung to it fiercely.

"If you're done abusing me, may I go take care of _my_ wounds?" she asked.

"Prepare to cast off!" Roche yelled, completely ignoring her. "Clear the lines and all aboard!"

Ves's voice carried from below. "Lines clear, captain!"

"Last chance," he said quietly. "I suggest you take it."

"Precisely why I'm staying," Rusa replied, and stormed below deck. Watching her walk away, Roche fought the urge to toss her overboard. One moment of pleasure in this miserable fucked up day and he'd missed his chance.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still don't own...

* * *

Rusa made her way to what appeared to be the cargo hold and flopped onto a crate. She passed Geralt and Triss on the way through but didn't want to disturb them. She overheard Triss say she was currently known as "the witcher's mistress" and "kingslayer's whore". Rusa tried to feel pity but simply couldn't. The redhead had been Foltest's advisor, after all. She'd been by his side during the battle. Everyone on this whole bloody ship was a loyal servant to the late Temerian king.

She remembered what Geralt said to the Baroness. _War demands sacrifices. You might remember that the next time you're about to start one_. Rusa couldn't stop the barrage of uncomfortable thoughts. One in particular stabbed at her with a furious persistence. She'd advised the Baroness to make peace with Foltest. Nothing good could come of denying the king his children. Take the children and make peace with Foltest. It seemed so _simple_. Too simple. But Rusa was not the only one giving advice for in the other ear of the Baroness, Aryan was demanding vengeance. Aryan wanted a war. The Baroness would take the side of her son. And everything would be lost.

Rusa rummaged through the crates and found a rough blanket. She wrapped it around her with relief despite the overwhelming stench of piss. Or was that just the hull in general? For a second she panicked that the smell came from her. She checked her clothes—torn and bloodied, but no telling stains. Her mind flashed back to being beaten in the cell. That odious, vile man standing above her, fists balled, breath rank and putrid as spittle flew into her face.

She was going to be sick. She'd held it back long enough. Now, in the corner of the hull, on this miserable little ship, she was going to vomit up days' worth of anger and devastation.

"Water for you."

Rusa jumped. Ves stood over her with a large bowl, some pieces of cloth, and a small sack.

"Your wounds," she pressed.

Rusa blinked. "Yes."

She soaked some of the cloth, laid it over her face, and let out a long groan. She flinched when Ves started wiping her arm gently. Puzzled, Rusa was glad her face was covered. Silence stretched on between them; Rusa enjoying the chill of the cloth against her swollen skin, Ves cleaning up efficiently.

"Arms done," the blonde said after a while. "Let's see the face."

Rusa frowned and removed the cloth. She felt like a child but she wasn't going to deny the help. Suddenly— _absurdly_ —she was conscious of her battered face. She was _embarrassed_ for something this woman's commander had inflicted _on her_! Something this woman—loyal soldier or not—had done nothing to prevent. Blue Stripes psychological warfare at its best.

But Rusa was also embarrassed for a much simpler reason. Ves was alarmingly beautiful. Again, she wondered how someone like her ended up under the command of someone like Vernon Roche. Obviously she was extremely talented in combat but…why the Blue Stripes? Annoyingly curious by nature, Rusa broached the subject in an attempt to fill the awkward silence.

"May I ask where you're from?"

She winced when Ves smoothed out a bandage on her left temple. She paused briefly then repeated the motion, softer this time. A minute passed by with no response and Rusa resigned herself to the silence.

"Nowhere of significance," said Ves.

 _Meaning you don't wish to talk about it._ Rusa nodded and began pulling clumps of dirt and dry blood from her hair. It was starting to look vaguely blonde again. To her surprise, Ves continued.

"Yourself?"

Rusa hesitated. How much to say? _What_ to say, that wouldn't be twisted into some kind of bargaining chip for the commander?

"Nowhere of significance."

Ves gave a small smile. She stood back, admiring her handiwork. "The wounds will heal quickly."

Rusa didn't want to say thank you. She didn't _need_ to say thank you. But she did.

"I've an old shirt you can wear. Unless you want to smell like shit," Ves mumbled. Rusa considered this. If she smelt like shit certain people might stay away from her… But her self-esteem was already in pieces. She accepted the offer gladly.

"Roche says you can rest for an hour but then you must speak with him," Ves said, handing her a tattered beige shirt. Rusa almost rolled her eyes but thought better of it. She wouldn't dare insult her leader even if she seemed friendly enough.

Roughly two hours later, she made her way above deck. Passing Geralt and Triss, she heard the latter whispering something about Geralt's 'unexpected child'.

"…you brought Ciri to Kaer Morehn and…"

Rusa stumbled over a loose plank. She kept walking as if she'd heard nothing, her mind racing. Ciri…? Cirilla? She'd not heard that name in over a decade. Not since… A simple word and yet the weight of it was crushing.

"You were to be here an hour ago," Roche said as she made her way towards him on the far side of the deck. She didn't have the energy to mask the bewildered look on her face. Roche stared at her suspiciously.

"What?" he asked.

"What?"

"You look shocked. What is it?"

Rusa forced herself to look calm. "Sea-sick."

"Unimportant," he said. He leaned against the railing and folded his arms, gesturing to the crate next to him.

Rusa shook her head. "I'll stand."

"Course you will. You've some answers for me, I hope."

"Depends on the questions," she bit back.

"And you _will_ cooperate."

Rusa was unmoved. She'd not give him what he wanted so easily. The man was so incredibly quick to temper and automatically hateful towards anyone who didn't oblige him…He didn't deserve her cooperation. At least, he didn't deserve her _immediate_ cooperation.

"I'm not your prisoner anymore, commander, and this isn't an interrogation. I'll decide whether or not I wish to cooperate."

Roche almost smiled. There was a part of him—a disturbingly large part of him—that wanted her to resist.

"Okay. That's okay," he said softly, and collapsed into a thoughtful silence. Rusa narrowed her eyes and waited. After a few moments, she tested the waters.

"I'm glad tha—the hell are you do—OW!" In one swift movement Roche swung her onto his shoulder, turned his back on the railing and dangled her over the water. In her panic, Rusa started squirming and he had to grip her ankles to keep her from flying overboard.

"I think it time for a little swim!" He lowered her slightly and almost laughed when she yelped. In the midst of it all, the thought came to him that he couldn't remember the last time he _wanted_ to laugh.

"Enough?" he asked, pretending to loosen his grip.

"Fuck you!"

"Okay." He let one ankle go and heard her scrambling madly trying to grab the side of the ship. His men watched him from across the deck, highly entertained. Ves stood off to the side, less entertained. If anything, she looked bored, apparently used to this behaviour.

"Stop!"

Good. Roche was satisfied. He hoisted her up and back over his shoulder, letting tumble to the ground. Rusa found her footing then swung a fist at his face. Roche, for all his experience, wasn't surprised she lashed out. What surprised him was that it _hurt_. She shot him a contemptuous look and sat on the crate, fiddling with Ves's old shirt. Roche inhaled slowly then crouched down in front of her.

"The Baroness has aligned herself with Nilfgaard…"

Rusa snorted, realising this was his version of an apology. "She'd no choice."

He nodded. "Fitz-Osterlen?"

"The ambassador, yes."

"Anaïs and Boussy?"

"I assume being looked after by some Nilfgaardian at the time."

"Any mention of Kimbolt or Maravel?"

"No but the Baroness is acutely aware of their desperation for the throne. She acknowledged allying with Nilfgaard as a pact with the devil but—"

"She'd no choice." Roche said bitterly. "You didn't accompany her. Why?"

"She said she'd no need of me in Nilfgaard," Rusa replied.

"I find that hard to believe. Rather than take you to Nilfgaard she thought it best to abandon you—"

"She didn't abandon me, commander! Nor did I desert her and the children. It pains me greatly—more than someone like you will ever understand—to think we've separated but where they're going, I simply cannot follow. I won't go back."

Surprisingly, Roche managed to resist snapping her neck. _Someone like him_. Someone like _him_ didn't understand loss? This very day, he'd lost the man practically a father to him. All he'd ever grown up with was loss; it was the only sense of routine he'd had as a child. And this woman—this infuriating _bitch_ —thought herself the apogee of morality and saw fit to make assumptions? In this moment, if they were alone, the _things_ he'd do to her…

Rusa, for her part, realised she'd said something to genuinely upset him. _Good._ The bastard deserved it. Roche broke the silence.

"There aren't many in the Northern Kingdoms willing to travel within the Empire, of course. To _go back_ there, however… If you tell me you're Nilfgaardian—"

"Do I _sound_ like one of them?" Rusa spat. She finally gave in. "I'm from Cintra, commander, you may have heard of it."

"Razed to the ground in the first Nilfgaardian war, a vassal state of the Empire then, a vassal state of the Empire now despite the treaty," said Roche mechanically.

"Right," she said, softening a little. "Look, I've no more information. I know no more than you do. What's worse is I've no way of knowing _anything_ about the children from now on. We're completely in the dark."

Roche debated how much to divulge to this woman who was not only a complete stranger, but one he thoroughly disliked. She'd finally told him her origins, though, even if it left more questions than answers. And as much as he loathed to admit it, something struck him on hearing her say "we". For some reason he did not care to define, he gave her the information.

"You're familiar with Brigida?"

Rusa's eyes widened. "The Papebrock woman?"

Roche smiled inwardly. _The Papebrock woman_. His previous assumption that the woman in front of him was no mere serving girl was proving to be correct, time and time again. The way she _spoke_. This woman was of noble birth. Along with the little information she'd given him: she was a Cintran noble. Of this he was certain. Something dawned on him then. Had this woman survived the massacre? He knew of only one other that had. Roche stored the question away.

"The Papebrock woman," he continued. "Nursemaid to Anaïs and Boussy."

"And your informer on the side?" asked Rusa.

He pressed his lips into a grim line. "Had your suspicions, did you?"

"Yes," she said simply. "She must still be with them, then. I didn't see her in the dungeons. Perhaps…I'm guessing as your informer you have ways of contacting her?"

"I doubt it. Too risky if they're with Nilfgaard."

Once again, the uncanny ability to lift your spirits and then destroy them in one fell swoop. Rusa gritted her teeth. "Then why tell me all this?"

Roche frowned. For once in his life, he didn't have the answer on the tip of his tongue. She sighed in frustration. Exhaustion was getting to her. This had been one of the longest days in her life.

"Goodnight, commander. If you need me—please, don't—I'm the one lying in the cargo hold covered with some shitty, piss-stained excuse for a blanket."

* * *

By the time they sailed into Flotsam, Rusa had achieved the unachievable: she'd managed to avoid Vernon Roche for two whole days. The commander had fallen into "one of his moods", according to Ves, and it was best to stay out of his way. Rusa certainly didn't need convincing. Meanwhile she'd amused herself with sleeping, eating stale bread and occasionally playing gwent with some of the soldiers. The game itself she absolutely loved; the company not so much. Fenn and Silas, she learned, enjoyed six things: drinking, arm-wrestling, fist fighting, gambling, whores, and hunting elf. They were men with nothing to lose. And they were all _extremely_ loyal to their commander. Rusa felt sick when they regaled her with tales of Blue Stripes torture methods. More horrific was that the man who'd designed such methods was currently above decks, pacing around, undoubtedly planning something sinister. They were heading to Flotsam, after all. _Iorveth's territory_ , Roche had said. Rusa knew of him. Everyone did.

She didn't see much of Triss and Geralt. At one point she passed them when they were asleep, the witcher resting his head on Triss's shoulder, both breathing softly in unison. Suddenly and without warning, her heart ached for them. The feeling was so unexpected her hand flew to her chest as if to soothe the pain. It was clear they were deeply in love. After everything that had transpired over the last few days and all that lay ahead, Rusa was certain of one thing: their love was going to be severely tested. Two days ago they'd been her enemy but she could no longer bring herself to see them this way. What was the point? She'd watched as Geralt shuffled in his sleep and tightened his grip protectively around the redhead's waist. Rusa hoped they survived the onslaught.

As the ship anchored, Geralt and Roche were discussing the next step. Rusa went and stood next to Triss whose eyes were fixed on her lover.

"You're from Cintra, Rusa…?" she asked, keeping her gaze straight ahead. Rusa struggled to hear what came next. Not only was it barely a whisper but she was also shocked that the sorceress had said her name. She'd been a nameless entity for almost a week now, hearing it said out loud was somewhat disorienting. And strangely comforting. Triss turned to her then, the look on her face one of restrained desperation and sorrow. It pained Rusa to be on the receiving end.

"Do you know Ciri? Do you know…where she is?"

Rusa opened her mouth then shut it again. The first question she could answer. The second, though… Triss took her silence as a sign she'd said too much.

"Sorry. I didn't mean…" she said, looking back at Geralt and Roche, the latter mentioning something about reconnaissance. Triss stepped forward and said she was going with them. Rusa suddenly felt very out of place.

"You should stay behind," Roche said. "We can't be sure of the reception we'll get."

"Precisely why I won't let you go alone. Someone's gotta look after you," Triss replied, earning a nod from Geralt.

Roche pointed at Rusa. " _You_ will definitely stay behind. You'll get yourself killed."

Rusa snorted. She refused to stay any longer on this miserable ship. "I can take care of myself," she said, and followed Triss down to the beach.

"That time of the month?" Roche mumbled.

Triss ignored him. "Any news from your secret informer?"

"The port's blocked. Some merchants have been held up for months."

"What about roads through the forest?"

"Iorveth rules the forest," he said. The disgust in his voice was palpable.

Triss left it at that. The two of them walked on ahead and Rusa fell into step with Geralt. In the darkness, she could hardly see his face. She supposed he wore the same neutral expression he always did. They walked together for a time, Rusa content with the amiable silence between them. She wondered what he was thinking. When Roche was calm—rare occasions, she realised—the man was often unreadable. Geralt, on the other hand, was absolutely impenetrable. She also wondered if he knew she was Cintran. And if he wanted to ask about Ciri… She felt completely useless. She couldn't tell them anything of value. Ciri's whereabouts were a mystery.

"He'll find out soon," said Geralt softly.

Rusa frowned. "Who and what?"

"You've elven blood," he replied. Rusa made a strange noise in the back of her throat. Although, that the witcher picked up on it hardly surprised her. He'd have known back in the dungeon. She remembered what he said on the docks: _I'm certainly not saying you'll be better off with us_. Geralt had known from the beginning.

"Ah."

"A quadroon. I know someone else who's…well, I knew, I don't know her at the moment…" Geralt trailed off and Rusa had trouble keeping up. Didn't know who now or… What? She stared at the man ahead of her, mumbling something to Triss and flailing his arms in frustration. She squashed the familiar panic she'd felt back in the dungeon. Roche, for all his skills of observation, wouldn't be able to tell. He hadn't yet and she held onto this. Geralt was right, though. The man would _find out_ soon enough—that was a 'talent' of his nobody could match.

"My mother was inh-eid," Rusa said, unsure why she was telling him this. It felt strangely cathartic. "A noble of Cintra. Dead now."

Geralt nodded. If he wanted to ask about Ciri, he didn't pursue it. It seemed he was wrestling with his memories—what little he had—and even though he and Triss had the spent the entire voyage reliving them, Rusa sensed he was still unable to fill the gaps. Beneath the veneer of composure, the witcher was struggling.

"In the massacre?" he asked. Rusa hesitated, torn between wanting to explain and repressing the memory—the kneejerk reaction she'd come to rely on. Light was slowly seeping into the forest. She hadn't even known it was close to dawn.

"Yes," she said finally. "Everyone was in the inner keep, ordered by Queen Calanthe. We were to die rather than surrender…"

"Including you?"

"Yes."

"How did you escape?"

 _Not the same way Ciri did_ , she wanted to say.

"My mother, she had magic—I have none… She was weak, dying. She'd already enchanted the inner keep but it could not resist for long. We were to be killed by our own kind. Mothers were killing their children; husbands killed their wives. Under no circumstances were we to surrender to Nilfgaard. My mother used what little energy she had to conjure a portal. I refused to leave her side. I remember clawing at her face as she picked me up. She screamed at me for being so selfish and pushed me through the portal. I don't remember seeing her for the last time. I was teleported to Brenna—fifteen years old at the time."

Silence fell between them, Geralt taking his time to understand the story, Rusa feeling dizzy, nauseous—but strangely relieved.

"Brenna, soon to become one of Temeria's most famous battle sites," he said. "Did you remain?"

"I did. As for the battle itself, I fought with the Cintran volunteers. For those that didn't possess the skills, their thirst for vengeance was enough."

"And you?"

"I'd both, I suppose. My mother made sure I was taught what I needed in order to take care of myself. Archery only, unfortunately, but it was enough. Though occasionally Aryan would… Anyway, at the end of the war I travelled through Temeria, ended up at La Valette…" Rusa trailed off on hearing the sound of some kind of flute. Triss and Roche had come to a halt.

"Hear that?" asked Geralt.

"I smell an elf," spat Roche. Rusa was unnerved by the slither of excitement in his voice. They walked on slowly and stopped below the bough of a fallen tree. An elf lounged across it, playing a recorder and seemingly oblivious to the company.

Roche glanced at Triss. "That's—"

"Vernon Roche!" said the elf, standing abruptly. "Special Forces Commander for the last four years. Servant of the Temerian king. Responsible for the pacification of the Mahakaman foothills. Hunter of elves, murderer of women and children. Twice decorated for valour on the field of battle…" He gave the commander a round of applause.

"Iorveth," said Roche. "A regular son of a whore." Rusa chewed the insides of her cheeks to keep from smiling. Straight to the point.

"I've long awaited our meeting," continued Iorveth. "Laid plans, set traps… And now you appear in my forest of your own volition."

Roche's patience was wearing thin. "You aided the man who slew my king…" Rusa glanced at Geralt subtly, surprised by the information.

"King or beggar—what's the difference? One dh'oine less," sneered the elf.

Roche had enough. "Climb down and we'll finish this. I await." Rusa rolled her eyes. He was stupid if he thought Iorveth to be alone. But he _wasn't_ stupid—hot-tempered and impatient, but not stupid.

Iorveth leered down at him. "Hah! You're a man without honour, Vernon Roche. An insect I'll not duel, but one that I will crush!"

Geralt interrupted the banter. "Seems like you spout the same old elven drivel."

Iorveth turned on him, staring at Rusa for a second longer than she'd have liked. Roche glanced between them then lowered his gaze.

"What do you mean, witcher?" Iorveth demanded.

"I've seen your kind before," said Geralt. "Proud Aen Seidhe sneaking around forests. Helpless, yet masking that with acts of increasing cruelty."

"I helped kill Roche's king," snapped Iorveth. "You call that helpless? Or would you call me a terrorist? No one will grant us our freedom, witcher. We must win it for ourselves."

"This isn't about freedom, your rights, or your ears. Nilfgaard ploughed you once, now someone new does. Am I wrong?"

"Those times are gone… No one will ever use the Scoia'tael again," said Iorveth bitterly. Rusa thought of Brenna. The Scoia'tael had fought under Nilfgaard. Iorveth had been there in the Vrihedd brigade under the command of Isengrim Faoiltiarna, the latter's whereabouts currently unknown. She'd never crossed either of them. Others, though, she'd killed the others—she had to. When memories of her mother resurfaced she felt conflicted about the Scoia'tael. They were murderers themselves, not so different from the Blue Stripes. But they'd a purpose, didn't they? Rusa let it go.

"Who are you addressing?" asked Geralt. "Me, yourself…or the archers in those shrubs?"

"Enough of this piss!" yelled Roche. "Die!" He threw a knife at the elf who managed to stumble across the bough.

"Spar'le!" Iorveth shouted, and jumped out of sight. Arrows rained from above and Rusa heard Triss mumbling quietly to herself.

"Addan quen spars-paerpe'tlon Vort!"

A shield formed above, encasing the four of them in a kind of protective bubble. With butterflies, Rusa noted pointlessly before watching the Scoia'tael arrows disintegrate on impact. She turned to Triss in amazement. The sorceress stared at her with a dreamy expression. Her nose was bleeding.

"Triss, are you al—" Rusa caught her as she collapsed to the ground. Geralt turned around and for the first time, Rusa saw genuine concern in his eyes.

"You should've charmed the archers… They're coming," said Roche. Rusa laid Triss on the ground gently.

"You need to carry her, Roche, I can't manage it. Geralt, get me a bow. Quickly."

Roche gave her a dark look. "Giving orders now? Why am I not surprised." He hoisted Triss onto his shoulder anyway. Rusa ignored him and bolted outside the shield to grab the bow of a fallen Scoia'tael. She shot at another and watched uncomfortably as the elf fell to the ground. The arrows went out but not in. She was further amazed by the spell.

"Geralt, the spell's still working! Stay close!" Roche threw a glance over his shoulder, looking pointedly at Rusa. "If I tell _you_ to stay close, you'll purposely go get yourself killed."

Triss spoke up. "Is that you, Roche? Get your hands off my ass!" If Rusa hadn't just shot an arrow through someone's skull, she'd have laughed.

"I'm not a sack of flour, or one of your commandos. I'm a woman!" Triss went on, delirious. The fighting continued, Triss's shield holding out despite the sorceress lying limp on Roche's shoulder. Whenever Geralt stepped out of the barrier, Rusa tried to shoot at any archer she could see. But the Scoia'tael kept coming. They would be overwhelmed soon enough.

"Least I'll die holding a lovely arse!" Roche proclaimed.

"Not mine!" said Triss. "I'll hold the spell…"

It seemed to last forever. And Rusa was running out of arrows. She looked at the mace dangling at Roche's side. She'd hardly be able to lift the thing let alone wield it. She threw the bow to the side and went to grab it.

"SCOIA'TAEL ATTACKING!"

Alarm bells sounded off in the distance. They'd made it to the trading post. Triss's barrier waned and Roche kept walking. Geralt stopped and stared at the cliff face behind them. Rusa followed his gaze, panting and sweating. Iorveth stood there, surrounded by his archers, whose kin she'd just killed. He stared at her evenly. She could feel his hatred despite the distance between them. But she would not feel guilty. The Scoia'tael were _not_ her people. She felt Geralt stiffen when another man joined Iorveth on the cliff. A bald, giant of a man.

"The monk? Rusa asked.

"The kingslayer," he replied softly, turning to follow Roche and Triss. The sorceress looked exhausted. Rusa placed a hand on her arm.

"Are you alright?"

Triss gave her a small smile. "Too many spells at once. You can die from that…"

"You all in one piece?" A guard stepped amongst them. "Who are you?"

"I'm a witcher," said Geralt with his inimitable nonchalance.

"Emhyr var Emreis," stated Roche. "Spice merchant."

The guard eyed him suspiciously. "A trader?"

"In spices."

"Uh-huh. And the woman?" The guard glanced at Rusa, who quickly considered her options.

"My wife, Greta," Roche said dismissively. "She's a mute."

"My good man," Triss cut in, "we barely escaped death. Be so kind as to tell us where we might get some rest. We'll explain everything later."

The guard conceded. "Very well. Head for the market square. You might be in time for the execution… Some ne'er-do-wells are going to hang—some dwarf and a bard. There's also an inn and a brothel…"

Triss rolled her eyes. "Oh yeah, the brothel sounds especially interesting. Take care, now."

The guard glanced at Rusa and Roche with a lewd expression. "Not that you two have need of a brothel, eh?"

"Oh, she performs well enough," said Roche agreeably. He manoeuvred Rusa through the crowd and towards the town gate. Once inside the market square, she punched him repeatedly in frustration. A couple of villagers stood by in shock. Roche took it all in his stride. This simply angered Rusa more and she hit him one last time— _hard_. She dropped her hands to her sides, fists still clenched.

"Better?" he asked.

"I can't speak, remember, I'm a _mute_!" she snapped.

"No need to be childish."

"Just shut up!"

They followed Geralt and Triss towards the scaffold in the middle of the square. The four of them stood among the throng of jeering peasants.

"Zoltan and Dandelion," said Geralt.

"My informer," Roche chimed in. "What's the plan?"

"We improvise."

Roche nodded. "No killing." Rusa looked surprised. He raised an eyebrow. "What?"

She shrugged. "I just assumed you killed everyone whenever you got the chance."

"You're still alive," he said pleasantly. "Now, stay here. Don't—! For once, just stay. Sit!"

Triss and Rusa watched them confront the guard at the scaffold. Words were exchanged and Rusa paid little attention. She saw Roche speak followed immediately by the guard shouting for reinforcements.

"…Got an uppity little one that needs a thrashing…" Not only did she think it the perfect description, she completely agreed. However, it was Geralt who started brawling with the guard.

"This won't end well," whispered Triss.

"Geralt can look after himself," Rusa said in an attempt to console her. "And really, who cares about Roche—"

"It's not that. It'd just be better if we didn't draw attention to ourselves…"

As Geralt stood upon the scaffold reinforcements finally arrived. Clearly, attention had been drawn because of Roche's inability to keep his temper once again. A man Rusa presumed to be in charge swaggered up to Geralt.

"You say I've no right to hang these bandits. Interesting, because last I heard Bernard Loredo was the law in Flotsam!"

"I take issue with that," Roche interrupted. Triss groaned. "Vernon Roche, officer of the king."

"Well, well. Blue Stripes, the nonhuman hunters," replied Loredo, staring at Roche with disdain. "It is of no concern." He kicked a lever and Rusa cried out when the elf on the far end of the scaffold fell to his death. Triss looked down at her.

"We don't need to see this. They'll meet us at the inn. Come." The sorceress walked away, Rusa following gladly.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Ah! I do? No, wait, I don't.

* * *

"No rooms, at all? You'll allow me to collect some funds; perhaps then you'll change your mind. Where's the bank in this town?"

The woman behind the counter gave Rusa a blank stare. "No bank, ma'am. Louis Merse handles the money and the mail services. He's the town chancellor. You'll find his house behind Fioravanti's stall."

"I'll be sure to pay Louis Merse a visit, then," Rusa said, and closed her eyes in frustration when the poor woman simply went about her duties. _Gods,_ _she sounded like Roche._ She went and sat with Triss who was occupying herself in the corner, casually ignoring the leers of six rowdy men. The two of them sat in silence for a while.

"Triss, your question earlier. About Ciri…" said Rusa. The redhead turned in surprise.

"We'd see each other around the grounds of the castle. We spoke little. She being the granddaughter of Queen Calanthe made communication difficult. Cintran's value their hierarchy…" Triss seemed to be listening intently so Rusa continued. "She was beautiful. Cintran boys vied for her attention but she paid them no heed. She was more interested in horses. I remember she'd watch when I had my archery lessons with Serris—he was the old smithy—she'd sit on the wall thinking I couldn't see her. She didn't want to be royalty, neither of us did. We wanted to travel and see the world. Nobility, for all its airs and graces, is stifling. I guess we got our wish, in the end…" Rusa trailed off, knowing she was now rambling on about pointless things. She decided to finish up.

"You should know I'm truly sorry… I haven't the slightest idea where she is. I'd like to see her again. She was one of the only people in the Cintran nobility I felt I could call a friend…"

Triss smiled and silence fell between them once more. Rusa left the sorceress to her thoughts and went to track down Merse. She bumped into Geralt outside the inn, Dandelion and Zoltan in his stead.

The bard made a sweeping bow, which Rusa returned with a strained smile. She assumed he was always so theatrical. The red tricorn hat accessorised with a large pheasant feather, presumably a handy quill… Yes, quite the thespian.

"Master dwarf," she said, earning a nod from Zoltan. "Triss is waiting, Geralt."

"Ves and the others have arrived," he said as he made his way inside.

"Great."

"Vernon wants to see you."

"Even better!"

Rusa made her way to the town square. After three attempts she found Fioravanti's stall and, once she'd agreed with the stall owner to take part in his next dice poker tournament, crossed over to Merse's house. An old woman led her to the study.

"What is it?" Merse asked without raising his head.

"I need to send for some funds in Novigrad," replied Rusa. He acted as if she'd said nothing. The old woman left the study.

Rusa clicked her tongue impatiently. "You'll address me, Louis Merse, I wish to do business."

He peered at her over his glasses. He was a dour-looking man, with a grim face framed by an ostentatious white collar and black Italianate hat.

"I heard you the first time. My dear," he said, taking off his glasses and wiping them like one exasperated with a child, "Flotsam's been declared in a state of emergency. Nothing comes in and nothing goes out. Your _funds_ will have to wait."

Rusa stared at him evenly. She noticed some leaflets on his desk. "These contracts, what are they?"

"Bounties for doing away with annoyances in Flotsam's forests."

Rusa scanned them quickly. Endrega, nekker, troll…

"What's a kayran?" she asked.

Merse pursed his lips impatiently. "If you need to ask then I suggest you don't take the contract."

"Thanks for your time." Rusa pocketed the contracts and made her way back to the inn. She was reminded about the poker tournament in the process and, considering she was unable to get to her funds, inquired about the time and place. Tomorrow evening, lower level of the inn. Or, the basement where the more nefarious activities of Flotsam took place. She'd take part in it herself. Maybe Fenn or Silas… They could share the winnings.

For some reason, Rusa found herself strolling around Flotsam—if one could 'stroll' around a town lovingly referred to by locals and visitors alike as "Temeria's arsehole". After a while, she realised the town was segmented into human and nonhuman zones, the former only slightly more liveable than the latter. Just west of the inn, she saw Ves standing outside an unremarkable building. Rusa made to turn around but the soldier beckoned her over.

"New headquarters?" she joked, following Ves inside.

"Mhm. Our little piece of squalor," she replied. The men were scattered around the place; some playing cards, others slouched in the corner, or throwing knives.

"You've a bed, at least," mumbled Rusa. Roche sat at a desk littered with diagrams of Flotsam. The desk itself was really quite extravagant and the commander looked surprisingly studious, his quill scratching away at something.

"Something you might be interested in, Fenn," said Rusa, sitting at the makeshift poker table.

The soldier looked her up and down, a smirk stretching across his face. "Really?"

Rusa held up a hand. "Don't do that. There's a dice poker tournament tomorrow evening, lower level of the inn. 500 orens reward and a certain prestige amongst Flotsam's drunkards, I imagine."

"I'm in," said Ves. Rusa smiled. The others started mumbling about mead and the brothel when Roche approached and ordered Rusa to follow. Ves conveniently started shuffling the cards.

He led her upstairs into a private room—presumably his—and bolted the door shut, lodging a chair under the handle for good measure. Rusa stood in the middle, unsure of what to do. Roche stared at her steadily.

"Nothing to say for once?"

She hesitated. "I'm…more talkative when not cornered in someone's bedroom."

"I find that hard to imagine," he said softly, and kicked a chair towards her. "Sit."

This time, she did as he asked. Something was different. Roche, usually so hot-tempered, was acting eerily calm. His eyes were cold and emotionless. Rusa struggled to control her nerves. She gripped the edge of the chair to steady herself. Roche pulled out a knife and wiped it casually on his sleeve.

"I've commanded the Special Forces for a while," he said. "Got good at beating others." He looked up at her then. "You're not exactly weak. You'd endure much."

Rusa held his gaze and stayed silent. She'd not buckle under this man—a man as cold and calculating, as he was volatile.

"Unfortunately for you, I've run out of patience. You've two choices. One, you tell me what I need to know and you leave the room. Two, you tell me what I need to know and I slit your throat."

Rusa cast her eyes to the floor, completely perplexed.

"I'll decide once I get the answer," he said, and tilted her chin up. Other women would be weeping by now. The one in front of him hadn't even shed a tear. He placed the knife under her throat.

"In the forest, before the Scoia'tael attacked, something passed between you and Iorveth. You will tell me what it was."

"What?" Rusa gasped when he pressed the blade harder.

"I'll not hesitate to see you bleed to death. I'd rather enjoy it. Tell me what passed between you. _Now_." The blade dug deeper and Rusa felt the warm trickle of blood travel to her collarbone. With his other hand Roche secured a grip around her wrists.

"I don't know!" she yelled, and the blade went deeper still. She started coughing and spluttering from the pressure of his fist against her windpipe. The familiar feeling of bile rising that she hadn't felt since the dungeons of La Valette…

"You _do_ ," said Roche, unmoved by her struggle. "You do know and you will tell me. One more denial and you die." Rusa's eyes began to water as he tightened his grip around her wrists. Any more and they'd snap. He placed them on her lap and held them there with his knee, leaning with all his weight. A guttural noise escaped her lips.

"I _don't_ know, I can only assume…" The pressure on her throat eased the slightest bit. Rusa took her chance and inhaled sharply.

"Yes?"

"I can only assume he sensed my…heritage," she said, immediately regretting her choice of words.

"Go on."

"I'm a—FUCK!" Roche yanked her hair and snapped her neck back. The pain in her upper spine was excruciating.

"You're a _fuck_?"

"A qua…droon!" Rusa choked.

"Any particular ancestry?" he sneered, scrunching her hair and pulling it tighter. She thought he was going to rip off her scalp.

"You already know!" The blade pressed deeper into her skin again. "Elvish—elvish ancestry!"

"Your mother?"

"Inh'eid. Dead."

"Human father?" Roche demanded.

"Yes."

"Dead?"

"Possibly."

"Possibly?"

"I never knew him!" Rusa screamed. Roche loosened his grip. After what seemed like an age, he let go of her with a rough shove. Rusa cradled her throat, her wrists limp and numb. She dropped her head and heard him pacing back and forth. Eventually the door slammed shut and she fell to her hands and knees, safe in the knowledge that she was alone. _Deep breaths._

The door clicked open and, expecting Ves, she snapped her head up in anticipation. Roche lingered on the threshold with a bowl of water and cloth— _cleaning up his own mess this time_ , Rusa thought. She climbed back on the chair, humiliated that he'd caught her all pathetic on the floor. He pulled up a stool and sat opposite her, their knees almost touching. He handed over the water and cloth. Rusa dipped her wrists into the bowl and let the coolness wash over her.

"Geralt told me the rest," said Roche, and watched as she gingerly dabbed at her throat. He stared transfixed as she swept her hair to one side and laid the cloth on her skin, closing her eyes. These little movements frustrated him.

"You've all the pieces of the puzzle now, commander."

"I have what I need to know."

"And yet, I'm still alive." The way she said it; like she _knew_ something about him that he didn't, could _see_ something hidden only from him. Or perhaps she simply suspected his motives; she was annoyingly astute, after all.

"For now," Roche replied. He'd not allow her the comfort of feeling absolutely safe. "You might be useful, after all."

"I'm not a pawn in your sadistic games! If you think I'll be able to gather valuable information on Iorveth, you're out of luck. The Scoia'tael are _not_ my people. The hate is mutual. I fought them at Brenna, I fought them in the forest earlier. Whatever you're planning, it won't work."

"You never knew your father," Roche said softly.

It wasn't a question. Rusa narrowed her eyes. "We've _nothing_ in common, Vernon Roche." She'd be damned if she spoke of her childhood to the man who'd enjoy watching her _bleed to death_.

Roche considered this for moment. "Perhaps you're right… For fucks sake!" He snatched the cloth and started wiping the blood off her collarbone. Rusa shoved him away and he gripped her chin fiercely.

"Stop squirming— _stop_! Just…fucking hell!" He grunted as she thrust her heel into his side. Roche threw up his hands in frustration, but not before ripping off the bandage Ves had applied on the ship.

"Who taught you to fight?" he asked.

"And if you find my answer unsatisfying?" Rusa snapped.

He smiled. "Nobility… Between the cream cakes and the fine wines, where'd you find the time?"

"I found it. Between the garden parties, as well."

"A bow, though—this elven shit. Are you skilled with a blade?" he asked. Rusa practiced with Aryan from time to time but her "skills" were certainly lacking. And she preferred it this way. She wasn't a swordswoman, nor did she wish to be. She felt at home with a bow.

 _At home_. Memories of her mother flooded back, Cintran courtyards, Calanthe beseeching someone— _anyone_ —to plunge a knife through her heart, the sweet scent of yellow roses, the little girl with ashen hair… Rusa rose quickly, fashioning the bloody cloth into a lousy cravat.

"We're done here, commander? I've things to do."

Roche had trouble comprehending her nonchalance. She'd just had a knife at her throat. Then again, the previous interrogations produced similar results. _She's_ _a little masochist_ , he thought. "Things?"

She crossed the room. "While your lot's holed up in this cosy little squat, the rest of us don't have the gold to rent a room. I'm sure Dandelion lives in the brothel and Geralt's happy sleeping under a tree but I'd prefer a bed." She gestured to the wooden pallet in the corner.

Roche raised an eyebrow. "That's mine."

Rusa frowned. "What? I know it is." She swept down the stairs and paid no heed to Ves and the others as she left.

* * *

Dusk had fallen by the time she left the Blue Stripes. Rusa didn't think a place could _smell_ of debauchery but Flotsam absolutely reeked. Drunkards meandered through the laneways, occasionally taking a moment to vomit then continuing on their merry way towards the brothel. Rusa was jostled by peasants rushing for the inn; since this was her destination she resigned herself to being carried by the throng. Once inside a hand fell on her shoulder and she jumped.

"I didn't mean to frighten you!" Dandelion held out his arm. "May I? Triss and Zoltan await."

"Geralt?"

The bard lowered his head. "Our witcher had an engagement with Commandant Loredo."

Rusa allowed herself to be led through the crowd. Dandelion started speaking but she had difficulty hearing him over the symphony of bawling drunks and screaming wives.

"…and I remember the castle … turrets stretched to the heavens, towering sentinels keeping watch over enchanted gardens…" He turned to her with a charming smile.

Rusa assumed he spoke of Cintra. "Yes, the Southern courtyard was a favourite of mine."

Dandelion's eyes lit up. "A beautiful place—as one must be in order to accommodate even more beautiful Cintran women, of course."

Rusa suppressed a groan. Such grandiloquence! A disorienting change of pace from the man she'd just been stuck in a room with. Triss's hair stood out among the crowd and Rusa delicately detached herself from Dandelion. The bard grinned and took a seat next to Zoltan.

"Look can somebody tell me what happened?" Triss asked, and shuffled along the bench for Rusa. "You set off a month ago for Zoltan's wedding…"

The dwarf eyed his mead. "That got fucked. There will be no wedding."

"Did you hear about Foltest?" Triss pressed. Dandelion yelled to the innkeeper for some vodka.

"Rumors travel faster than the wind," he said, sending Rusa a wink.

"Winds and rumors," interrupted Zoltan. "I want to know the truth."

Dandelion couldn't contain his excitement. "I want to know how Foltest died. And the dragon—was there really one there? And who rules Temeria now?"

Rusa pursed her lips impatiently. "Calm down, bard, you'll choke on your liquor. Triss, you're the expert on Temeria. Who's in charge now?"

The sorceress launched into a tale of old Temerian families fighting for the throne. None of this was new information to Rusa. Dandelion, however, was completely rapt.

"While Rusa and Geralt were in the dungeon, the lords convened in a field near La Valette Castle to choose a new ruler. In spite of several duels and two poisonings, no king was chosen…"

"You humans… Enough politics!" grumbled Zoltan.

"Foltest's killer lay in wait in the tower where the royal children were hidden," Rusa continued. "He disguised himself as a monk, a blind one at that. He…slit Foltest's throat."

Dandelion looked appalled. "And the children?"

Rusa stiffened. "With Nilfgaard."

Over the din of the tavern Rusa only just made out the alarm bells in the distance.

A dishevelled peasant barged through the back door. "Save yourselves, good folk! The beast attacks!"

Triss touched Rusa's arm lightly. "We better get out there—someone's using spells."

The women looked at Dandelion and Zoltan expectantly but neither man moved. They'd seen it all before, apparently. Rusa followed Triss to the docks and gasped when she saw a massive tentacle swinging around wildly, landing a crushing blow on the peasant beneath. Rusa ran to help him but was held back by Geralt who'd joined them on the docks.

"It's under control," he said, and nodded towards a sorceress who hurled some kind of lightening at the beast. The tentacle shrunk back into the water—stunned but largely unharmed. The woman sauntered towards them, still surrounded by a blue aura. She cut a magnificent figure, wrapped in an extravagant gown and donning a decadent hennin headdress. Rusa, used to the ridiculous fashions of the nobility, was happy in Ves's shirt and breeches. Triss gave a small, imperceptible groan.

"Sile de Tansarville," she muttered, loud enough for Rusa to hear.

Sile eyed the three of them calmly. "Geralt?"

"Ah," said Geralt, "I guess we knew each other."

"Let's say…I've heard of you," she said.

"I apologize for interrupting, but I am Louis Merse, the person in charge of all matters related to monster-hunting in Flotsam." Rusa rolled her eyes as the chancellor swaggered across the docks.

"It is in this capacity that I…ah." He glanced coolly at Rusa. "I'd provide you with the official documents but they're no longer in my possession. No matter. Witcher, I must inquire if you're willing to solve the problem of our so-called kayran—the beast that now blocks all trade traffic on the river."

"I thought Flotsam's trade routes were blocked because of a _state of emergency_ ," Rusa taunted. Once again, Merse removed his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve—a move, it seemed, reserved purely for her.

"Kill the kayran," he said slowly, "and I'll consider your former request. You've the contract—I assume you're able to read."

Sile cut in. "So, witcher? Are _we_ willing?"

"I usually work alone…" Geralt replied.

"I was here first, and I'll not relinquish this contract." She glanced at Rusa pointedly. "My way or the highway, as the locals put it…"

"Fine, your way it is," said Geralt, after which Louis Merse gave Rusa an annoyed look and left them to their business. An awkward silence fell over them and Sile clicked her tongue impatiently.

"Triss, how long must I wait for you to introduce us?"

The redhead made no attempt to hide her displeasure. "Sile de Tansarville, advisor to Queen Zulika of Kovir. You already know Geralt… This is Rusa Elyot of Cintra."

"Cintra?" Sile replied, her interest piqued. "Why so far north?"

"Why so far south, Madame?" Rusa retorted.

Sile smiled at Geralt. "Oh, I like her. I had my doubts if the kayran was worth the journey, but those were dispelled with what it showed today."

"Here to hunt down some ingredients?" asked Triss.

Sile's smile remained, all sincerity lost. "Triss Merigold—sharp as ever… But, yes. Troll eyes, ghoul venom, and virgins' blood—all those disgusting marvels we take from dying species… To throw into the cauldron at sabbaths. Right, Triss?"

"Absolutely—virgins are a dying breed," said the redhead.

Rusa was genuinely taken aback. You could cut the hatred with a knife. de Tansarville waved Triss aside.

"Cedric claims the kayran emerged from the northern swamps approximately one month past," she said, her attention back on Geralt.

"Who's Cedric?"

"An elf," said Sile. "Formerly a Scoia'tael. Strange bird, but he knows quite a bit about the area and its living wonders."

Geralt nodded. "I need to do some things. We'll pay Cedric a visit and get back to you." Rusa was surprised at hearing him say "we".

"You'll find me at the inn," replied the sorceress. "I've rented lodgings there—on the upper floor."

"You know the inn's also a whorehouse," drawled Triss. Rusa groaned inwardly. She and Triss would have to take up lodgings with the Blue Stripes.

Sile regarded the redhead with a haughty expression and turned to leave. "Thanks for the warning."

* * *

The three of them made their way back to main square, Geralt mumbling something about Rivia. Rusa parted with them as they reached the inn, saying to Triss she'd sort them out some lodgings for the night.

"If I'm to accompany you on this kayran business, Geralt, I'll need a bow," she said.

"A Scoia'tael one?"

Rusa waved a dismissive hand. "No need to trouble yourself. There's a craftsman in Lobinden. Lord knows they need the trade… Give me a day. You do what you need to do. Oh, and here—some bedtime reading." She handed him the contracts and said her goodnights.

A Blue Stripes soldier urinating at the foot of the stairs was Rusa's signpost for the headquarters. Flotsam, at night, was like some kind of grotesque carnival. It seemed to physically morph come night time into a deranged free-for-all. Rusa waited for the soldier to stop. Clearly, the man was deep in his cups. Finally, he let out a satisfied moan and gestured for her to pass. She mumbled a thank you and stepped over the puddle.

She placed her hands on Roche's desk. "Triss and I will stay here. The inn's a whorehouse and we've nowhere else to sleep." She fiddled with a knife stuck in the desk and let out a small grunt of frustration when she couldn't dislodge it.

Roche handed her the knife. "Whorehouses are usually very accommodating."

"Spare me the details of your private life, commander," she bit back, and placed her hands on her hips to survey the room. "Now, where do you want me?"

Roche considered this for a moment. So many options… "Curled up at the foot of my bed. Like a dog."

Rusa didn't rise to the bait. "I'll take your room and bed for myself if that's what you're offering." She immediately bolted up the stairs, Roche close behind.

"You'll sleep downstairs, _with the men_ ," he snapped and blocked the door. "I'd wager you've slept in worse conditions."

"It's reeks of piss and shit down there—I don't know how Ves stands it," Rusa complained. She couldn't believe she was _whining_ to the commander of the Blue Stripes. She'd fallen low. "Besides, why don't _you_ sleep downstairs with _your_ men?"

"No."

"No…?"

"No."

Rusa studied him in the dim light of the landing. "Why do you wear this thing?" She touched his chaperon and didn't fail to notice when Roche flinched ever so slightly at the contact. She immediately withdrew her hand and went to leave. Roche made a noise in the back of his throat and grabbed her arm.

"You'll sleep in here tonight. _Only_ tonight." He pushed past her and made his way downstairs. "Lock the door behind you."


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Don't own.

* * *

Lobinden was a small depressing village on the outskirts of Flotsam. Lying just beyond the walls, it not only acted as Flotsam's provider of 'goods and services', but the first port of call in terms of Scoia'tael attacks. As Rusa made her way towards Sendler's hut—distinguished from the other merchants by a large fish hanging overhead—she saw the extent of the Scoia'tael threat; anxiety etched in the villagers' faces, lethargy clouding their movements. But despite this, she noticed something different, something pleasantly surprising. This quiet little backwater was home to elves, dwarves and humans alike and—unlike its neighbour—they seemed to coexist peacefully, united in their daily labours. Lobinden, obscure and forgotten, was a muddy little haven.

"Ah! A patron! What you seek here in Lobinden?" Sendler emerged from his hut, wide-eyed and dishevelled. He was a squat man with ears too big for his head. Deep scars cut across his nose and forehead.

"A soon-to-be patron, I hope," replied Rusa. "I haven't the orens yet but I assure you I'll have your pay by tomorrow morning."

Sendler eyed her suspiciously. "What you wanting?"

"A bow."

He raised his eyebrows. "Ma'am, I'm a simple leather-worker…"

"I'll give you 150 orens," said Rusa. "I imagine in these hard times you're willing to accept commissions for more specific products. You're clearly a very capable man." She gestured around his shack, taking note of the many spears and traps. Sendler considered this for a moment. _Drawing out the negotiation_ , thought Rusa.

"150, take it or leave it."

Sendler gave her a toothless grin and shook her hand. "150 orens by tomorrow morning," he said with excitement. "I'll get to work—I've some strong yew for the body…the string, though… fish netting…" He hustled back into his hut.

"May I inquire as to where I might get some herbs?" Rusa asked. Sendler popped his head out the window with a vacant expression.

"For the arrow tips," she said.

The craftsman gave her a knowing look. "Ah, you'll be wanting Cedric. Over there."

 _Cedric_. Rusa hoped Geralt wouldn't mind if she paid him a visit now. She climbed to the top of a lookout and faltered when she overheard a conversation between two elves.

"Imbaelk. It'll be nearly a year now," said one. He sported a dark coat and an eye patch, quite the opposite of the one she assumed to be Cedric who more resembled the Scoia'tael. _Former member of_ , Rusa reminded herself.

"Moril would delight in a day like this, Seherim. Enjoy the memory of her, don't wallow in the longing," Cedric said with a slight slur.

Seherim looked desperate. "I try, I do! But I cannot believe all the bad blood this disappearance has bred." They continued to talk amongst themselves, Cedric providing his friend with some timely advice before saying farewell.

"Who are you and what do you want?" he asked, eyes fixed on the forest.

Rusa crossed the observation platform. "I've need of some herbs. Poison for arrow tips. Paralysis, preferably."

" _Preferably_ ," Cedric drawled, and finally turned to face her. He looked her up and down, a glazed look his eyes. Rusa noticed the telling Scoia'tael tattoo running down his neck. Just like Iorveth's. "You didn't answer my first question."

"Rusa Elyot of Cintra. Can you direct me to the proper herbs or should I leave?"

"Xin'trea?" Cedric hummed. "Baeg wedd… What brings you to Flotsam?"

Rusa grimaced. It was a long, exhausting story. "I travel with Geralt of Rivia. You'll meet him soon enough."

"The witcher?"

She cut to the chase. "Who exactly are you?"

"One who warns humans against the dangers that lurk in the forest," he replied with an enigmatic look.

"Care to clarify?"

"I am old, even for an elf." He gave her a rueful smile. "Yet the forest is older. I've lived in it for years and understand it, though it's nothing I can explain. At times I make mistakes, and people don't come home."

"So you help humans? What about the Scoia'tael?" inquired Rusa. Cedric shrugged indifferently.

"I just know when it's safe to venture beyond the gates or not," he replied. "As for the Scoia'tael, I assume you speak of Iorveth's Commando. They believe they are still independent and that there is but one just way to view their cause. In truth, however, they're but a shadow of the Aen Seidhe's former glory. They cling to delusions to the very moment when a sword or a noose ends their life."

Rusa frowned. Surely it wasn't that simple. "Iorveth seems to acknowledge the fine line between freedom fighter and terrorist."

"Iorveth's warriors are young. They fight for survival and out of suicidal revenge. I _do_ like your poetics, however," he slurred. "'One man's freedom fighter is another man's terrorist'…pure fodder for the bards."

"Maybe I should come back when you're sober…"

At that moment Cedric's eyes cleared and he stared at her with alarming precision. "Perhaps _you'll_ live to see that day, baeg wedd," he said.

"Perhaps," she agreed, and changed the subject. "Who's Moril?"

A small smile played on the elf's lips. "That kind of curiosity will get you into trouble. As for your original inquiry: balisse fruit. Grind into a paste and coat the arrow tips. Be sure to wear gloves."

Rusa surveyed the forest. "Any particular direction?"

"Oh, anywhere really."

"Great." She climbed to the bottom of the lookout and grabbed a stray piece of cloth from someone's washing line to handle the fruit.

"Do be careful," Cedric called from above. "You've a lovely scent, Rusa Elyot—certain creatures will find it alluring."

* * *

Balisse fruit turned out to be just as abundant as Cedric claimed and Rusa went slightly overboard with her collection. If it was to have any affect on even one of the kayran's tentacles, she assumed she needed a ridiculous amount. For the first time in weeks she felt at peace here in the forest, collecting berries with only her thoughts for company. She thought of everything that'd happened in the last week; everything she'd lost, everything she'd gained in some strange twist of fate. The people back in Flotsam…could she call them friends? Triss and Geralt, even Ves... She was uncomfortable with the finality that came with the word 'friend'. Rusa couldn't trust them—she couldn't trust anyone. In the recent upheaval—the children, the Baroness, Aryan—she couldn't even trust herself. Think of someone as a 'friend' and mistakes were bound to happen.

She thought of Anaïs and Boussy. At least they had each other. And the Baroness—were they still travelling to Nilfgaard? Boussy was never good in a wagon…

Without warning, Rusa let out a guttural moan and dropped to her knees. She made no move to fend off the tears. Alone in Flotsam's forest, she wept. For everything. Everyone. For herself. Flooded with conflicting emotions—the will to survive clashing bitterly with her sense of betrayal and abandonment. Her 'friendships' with the people who, a week ago, fought on the opposite side of the battlefield; Roche's volatile moods… She laid in the grass, taking solace in the quiet pierced only by her choked sobs and some distant growl. And then the stomping of feet heading her way.

Rusa bolted upright and snapped her eyes to the hideous beast running towards her. A nekker, but bigger than any she'd seen before in the forests around La Valette. She stumbled to her feet; pulse accelerating as she heard the creature gaining pace. No weapon, no magic… She panicked and reached for a rock, hurling it at the beast. It dodged out of the way and continued hurtling towards its target—grunting, frothing, and seething. Just as Rusa was about to run, the creature leapt forwards and threw itself at her. And in the split second that separated them, she thought of her mother. She closed her eyes. In the chaos, she barely registered the stroke of a feather as it grazed her cheek. The nekker landed with a dull thud, an arrow protruding from its heart.

Rusa whipped her head around and locked eyes with an elf. Not Iorveth, she noted with relief, but another Scoia'tael. He lowered his bow for a moment then changed his mind and notched another arrow. Rusa splayed her palms to the ground. The elf studied her over the bow with an unreadable expression.

"Tell me why I should let you live," he demanded. To Rusa's dismay, she'd no reasons that he'd think worthy. Innocent? Hardly. He'd seen her before with Roche and the others, had watched her kill several of his comrades with a Scoia'tael bow. Aside from this she was just another filthy dh'oine.

"I've no reasons that would justify you sparing my life," she said honestly.

The elf regarded her coolly. "A dh'oine not begging for her miserable life? Here I thought you all to be equally pathetic." He lowered his bow, but only slightly. "You slaughter my brothers and sisters then dare to journey through the forest alone? Your arrogance is blinding."

"If I hadn't killed them, they'd have killed me," Rusa added hotly.

"Who are you?"

"Rusa Elyot," she replied. "Of Cintra."

"You align yourself with the Blue Stripes, Rusa Elyot of Cintra?"

Her eyes widened. "No! _No._ I travel with Geralt of Rivia." She realised by now how much more acceptable association with Geralt was than with Roche. She knew it all along. To her astonishment, she felt a pang of betrayal—only slight, but enough to immediately lodge itself in the back of her mind. Her cheeks flushed in a moment of recognition.

The elf lowered his bow. "The witcher who also slew our kin," he said. _Our_ kin?

Rusa tried to distract him. "May I ask your name?" How _stupid_ she felt making conversation with someone who probably preferred her dead and rotting next to the nekker at their feet.

The elf sheathed his bow and trudged past her. "You should leave now, Rusa Elyot. These creatures hunt in packs, more will be along soon."

Left alone with the bloated corpse of the nekker, Rusa gathered the balisse and rushed back to Flotsam, wondering how many times she'd escaped death in the last few days. She inhaled slowly and marched through the gates. If she valued her life she'd tell no one of this little meeting in the forest. More importantly, she had a poker tournament to win.

* * *

Faithful to Flotsam's style in general, the lower level of the inn was a squalid little den with an overwhelming stench of liquor and body odour. A large amount of the latter, she realised, wafted over from the 'fist-fighting corner', which was currently a frenzy of activity. Unsurprisingly, she saw Geralt dodging the blows of another patron to the whistles and jeers of the surrounding men. Apparently the witcher was also lacking in orens.

"Good to see you m'lady!" Fioravanti placed a hand on the small of her back and led her to an inconspicuous table. Ves was already there with two other men. The soldier gave no sign of acknowledgment as Rusa took a seat opposite. _Wise move_ , she thought, _keep attention to a minimum_. They settled in to play, Ves rolling first—three-of-a-kind. One of the men next, his cheeks flushed from liquor and eagerness—two pairs. The man opposite Rusa rolled another three-of-a-kind, levelling with Ves. He glanced up at the blonde, who'd adopted an impressive poker face. Fioravanti kept busy scribbling the scores. Rusa felt her stomach drop when she only managed to roll a pair. Ves countered with a four-of-a-kind. The men were getting nervous and their eyes darted across the board. _If this were gwent I'd be miles ahead_ , thought Rusa bitterly. Rolling another pair, Rusa gave up and leaned back in her chair to watch Geralt punch another volunteer in the face. Surely, these men knew they were fighting a witcher?

"Blue Stripes wins!" Fioravanti beamed in Ves's direction. The other men mumbled their congratulations and plodded over to the bar to drown their sorrows. "Ves will now battle against the winner of the previous round, who I think...Ah, here he comes."

Geralt traipsed over to the table. Rusa rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Really, Geralt? You already have the contracts." He gave a small shrug and took a seat opposite Ves.

"Geralt of Rivia is famed throughout Temeria for his skills in dice poker," continued Fioravanti, positively sweating with enthusiasm. He looked at Geralt and Ves with a mischievous grin. "Shall we begin?"

Ves rolled first, appearing just as stone-faced as the witcher, which was a feat in itself. Despite being a game of luck, they seemed evenly matched and Rusa soon lost interest. She slipped out the back door and into the main square. Just outside the front of the inn two silhouettes were arguing. Squinting, she made out two men, a human and an elf. Voices got louder and before the elf could get another word in several other men arrived and tackled him to the ground. Rusa looked on with horror as they pummelled the elf—now four against one—yelling obscenities and spitting in his face. He had his arms braced against his face for protection but it did him little good. What disgusted Rusa more was that the townspeople stood by and did nothing. They kept to their drinks. This was a regular occurrence for them. The elf let out a guttural scream and she stormed towards the men, flailing her arms around.

"Stop!" She shoved the peasant lingering on the edge of the pack. He caught his foot on someone else's leg and stumbled to the ground. The other men took no notice and continued kicking the elf, stomping his head into the dirt. Rusa winced when she caught a look at his face—bloody, filthy, one tooth hanging by a thread, another piercing his lip.

"You'll kill him!" she screamed, and shoved one of the other men in an attempt to get to the elf. Another grabbed her from behind and locked her arms to her sides.

"There's enough to go round, sweet'art." His rank breath tickled her ear and Rusa almost retched. The elf had fallen unconscious. The men continued to pummel his limp body. It rolled over like a sack of flour, his face now unrecognizable. She'd seen carnage at Brenna but this moment—so savage, so _pointless_ —her memory would not be able to let this one go.

"What's going on?"

It dawned on her then that this was the only time she was genuinely happy to see Vernon Roche. He walked up to them, unhurried and deliberate in every movement. He glanced at the elf sprawled on the ground and then at the peasant holding Rusa.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

The man's arms loosened. "Nothing," he spat. "Just havin' a bit of fun." Rusa shrugged out of his grip and went to the elf. She put an ear to his battered face—still breathing.

"Hey!" One of the other men spoke up. "I know you—your soldiers threw knives at a statue of Veyopatis! It's blasphemy—our gods desecrated by soldiers!"

"They're no ordinary soldiers, but Blue Stripes." Roche folded his arms as Rusa came up beside him. "Know what that means?"

"He needs medicines," Rusa cut in.

Roche gave a soft 'hm' as another peasant got in his face. "Blue or green, it's all the same to us! They're whoresons, all of 'em!"

The crowd outside the inn were paying attention now. This was something they wanted to see. Roche tilted his head ever so slightly. "What did you say?"

The man blanched. "I-I, uh, just—"

"You said what you thought. Good, that's the way." Roche gestured to the people around them. "Beer for this brave man. And drink to my health. Here's to the whoreson, Vernon Roche!"

When someone handed the man a beer, Rusa laughed. If she didn't laugh, she'd cry. Was everyone in this town completely insane? The poor elf was still lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood. She knew of the tensions between humans and nonhumans but this nonchalance was just barbaric. The man took a tentative sip of beer as the rest watched on. Rusa laid a hand on Roche's arm.

"We need—"

"You've got shitty glassware in Flotsam," he said coolly. "Not fit for a hero, but I've got an idea…"

A solid blow to the stomach and the peasant doubled over and collapsed, the beer smashing to the ground.

"Drink the whoreson's beer from the floor!" Roche ordered. Everyone was silent. Rusa took the chance to hoist the elf onto her shoulder. Surprisingly, a young human woman left her table to come and help. _Too late for that_ , thought Rusa, but she managed a strained smile. The girl couldn't have been more than sixteen.

"Hold him here," Rusa mumbled, and evened out the weight. "Roche, we need to go. Leave him alone, it's not worth it."

Roche shot her a dark look. "You don't know shit…" He turned to the other assailants. "Consider this your lucky day, mongrels. And get out of here!"

Rusa and the young woman were already on their way to the nonhuman district when Roche stormed past. "I have to take a walk," he muttered.

When they entered the district Rusa was at a loss. She didn't even know whose unconscious body she was hauling around. She turned to the woman beside her. "Who is this man, do you know?"

"Ylvan Lynila. Blacksmith apprentice," she replied breathily. Rusa stopped suddenly.

"You know him?"

The woman coloured considerably. "Yes."

 _Yet you sat there and did nothing!_

"Things in Flotsam… There was nothing I could do," the woman continued quietly. She cast her big blue eyes to the ground. Rusa felt a twinge of guilt. She was only young, what could she have done? But to do nothing… to _know_ the person and still do nothing!

"What's your name?" asked Rusa.

"Beryl."

"Where to, Beryl?"

The woman seemed relieved. "Not far. Just here on the left."

They slid Ylvan onto a bench outside the front door. There were no lights on in the house. The elf's body slumped and almost fell to the ground. Rusa hoisted him up, hesitating before grabbing him again as he swayed.

"He live alone?" she asked.

Beryl shrugged and peered through a window. Her blonde curls bounced as she inspected another. "Looks like."

"A simple solution," Rusa said, and sat the girl next to the body. She looked horrified. "You'll stay with him until he wakes up. Make sure he's not concussed." Beryl opened her mouth to object. Rusa placed her hands on her shoulders. "You've done something great tonight. You should be proud."

She turned to leave and glanced back at Beryl twiddling her thumbs, Ylvan's head resting on her shoulder.

* * *

Rusa was surprised when she found the headquarters empty. Ves must still be at the inn. Fenn, Silas, and the others…probably the brothel. Which was also the inn. She leaned over Roche's desk and examined all the diagrams. Three sketches of Loredo's residence, one of each floor. She didn't look up as Roche stepped into the room. He came up behind her and leaned over her shoulder.

"Loredo's place," he mumbled, and made his way upstairs.

Rusa didn't turn around until she heard his door click shut. She didn't know how to react. He sounded...not angry or sarcastic. Something else. It was unnerving. Tired, fed up... Obviously the whoreson comment hit him hard. Rusa remembered when Aryan had just started teaching her the basics of sword fighting. She remembered him hacking away at a training dummy, telling her all about Foltest's right hand man—"Blue Stripes bastard, some peasant whoreson, thinks he's untouchable hiding behind his king!" In the silence of the Blue Stripes headquarters, Rusa laughed. Roche, hiding? She'd pay to see the day.

She glanced at the stairs. Should she check on him? And then the little voice, incredulous and bitter— _Don't you dare feel sorry for him. That man upstairs, a murderer, a man who'd do anything to get what he wants_ …But it wasn't sympathy she felt. It was stronger, more potent, and by far the most disturbing emotion she'd experienced in the last week. It was empathy.

Rusa took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Silence. She knocked again. Nothing. She was halfway down the stairs when he spoke.

"What is it?"

Roche stood in the doorway, his face shadowed. "You're sleeping downstairs tonight," he said.

"That's fine."

He frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Rusa said hurriedly, "Ylvan—the elf from earlier—he's home. Well, probably still unconscious but the young woman—Beryl—she's staying with him until he wakes up…"

"Why are you telling me this?"

She paused. Why _was_ she telling an infamous nonhuman hunter about a nonhuman's wellbeing? "Well. Thanks for intervening."

"Did he hurt you?" asked Roche.

"He's unconscious—"

"Not the bloody elf, the other runt."

"Oh, him." _Not the one who called you a whoreson_. "No. Just terrible breath."

A smile tugged at Roche's lips. He wouldn't give Rusa the pleasure of knowing she'd made him laugh. He could tell she wanted to discuss what happened earlier. He expected as much. What annoyed him most was that he _would_ discuss it with her. He opened the door a bit wider.

Footsteps sounded from below followed by the murmuring of voices, the scraping of chairs. Rusa heard Ves complaining to the men about acting like swine. Hopefully she'd returned with at least some of the winnings. Surely Geralt wouldn't take it all for himself. Then again, Rusa didn't really know the witcher at all.

"I came to see if you were alright," she said, her attention back on Roche. Instead of entering the room she lingered awkwardly on the top step.

"I think I can manage," he snapped. He was starting to get frustrated. With the woman in front of him; with the way she chose to stay put; with the fact they were no longer alone.

"No need to be a bastard," said Rusa indignantly. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment. "Sorry, I didn't mean…"

Roche sighed. He was tired and had a throbbing ache near the back of his skull getting worse by the second. Against his better judgment, he gestured for her to come inside. When she hesitated he threatened to slam the door in her face. She quickly ducked under his arm and took a seat on the edge of the bed.

"Don't get too comfortable," he said.

"I get it." Rusa thumped the blanket dramatically and coughed from the dust.

Roche cut some bread on a side-table and offered her a piece. "I suppose it lacks the essentials. Silk sheets, scented pillows…"

"Don't," she said, pushing away the bread. "I'll get all nostalgic."

"Flotsam must be very difficult for you," he replied with a hint of a smile.

Rusa snorted and asked for another piece of bread, smaller than the last. She was told to eat from the previous slice or go hungry. "Flotsam is difficult even for those born and bred here," she said, picking at the crust. "Who honestly enjoys living in this cesspit?" She knew she was being overly harsh. Lobinden wasn't exactly unpleasant.

"Men like Loredo for one," said Roche. "Drunk peasants, criminals, whores…"

"Some drunkard called me a whore, once."

Roche raised an eyebrow. He imagined the scenario; some tavern drunk calling her a whore, Rusa making some snide comment about his manners, goading him on for fun. He'd have liked to have seen it. "Is this drunkard still alive?"

"I imagine so," Rusa mused. "I certainly didn't end his life. Maybe he died in his cups."

Roche gave an imperceptible nod. He knew what she was trying to do. But it wasn't the same. She wasn't labelled a whore from birth. She wasn't mocked, attacked, and spat on by other children. _Whoreson, dirty little whoreson!_ She didn't watch her mother get raped and beaten by strange men almost daily. She lived in luxury, he grew up in filth. She lost her mother, her life at Cintra but _he'd_ never had a life to begin with! Weighing up these differences, Roche felt his temper rise. The woman in front of him had no right to sit there and try to relate.

But he'd tried to do it earlier, hadn't he? During the interrorgation. He'd asked about her father. For what? To throw her off guard, he reasoned at the time. He didn't need her life story. He didn't need someone to relate to. Ves already knew everything. She understood. But he was the one who invited Rusa in. She sat on his bed, nibbling at her bread with a look of distaste, because he let her in.

"That was just one time," she continued with an amused expression. "I'm sure I've been labelled worse."

Roche calmed down, something that surprised him considerably. "Don't concern yourself, I've enough enemies for the both of us."

Rusa smiled. "Despised by the entire Temerian court and beyond?"

"All mutual, I assure you," he mumbled. "Foltest. He's who mattered."

An uncomfortable silence fell between them. The King was dead. Not _her_ king, but Roche's. It saddened him greatly, she could tell. She knew back in the dungeon the moment his voice faltered. Rusa bit her lip. _She'd_ lost everyone, as well! Everything. _Again_. All because _his_ king was a stubborn old fool who waged war whenever he didn't get his way. She took a deep breath.

"You've my condolences."

He narrowed his eyes. "What for?"

"It seems Foltest was like a father to you."

Roche took his time. Her gaze was becoming intolerable but he refused to look away. He took comfort in one thing, though: there was no pity in her voice, no sympathetic glances. He'd never be able to forgive her if there was.

"Or perhaps you're just a real patriot…"

"Both," he replied sternly, and gave her a warning look. "If not for Foltest I'd be a drunk or a vagrant. He did more for me than my father ever did. Then again, my father did exactly nothing for I never knew him.

"How long have you been with the Blue Stripes?"

"Since the beginning. They're my unit. Four years, now."

Rusa frowned. "Are there other units like yours?" _Any others that enjoy hunting nonhumans as much as you do?_

"Each kingdom has its own Special Forces. The Blue Stripes belongs to Temeria," said Roche with a dismissive tone.

They were approaching dangerous territory. _Are you aware many consider the Blue Stripes to be human Scoia'tael?_ Rusa longed to ask him this, watch him squirm as he made some excuse. Much to her annoyance she couldn't bring herself to do it. She changed tack. "What about your mother? What's her name?"

"Anna."

"Pretty. Is she still alive?"

Roche visibly stiffened. "I wouldn't know."

"Much like my father, then," said Rusa nodding. "Perhaps when this is all over, I'll try to find him. Or his grave. Mother rarely spoke of him."

Roche wasn't sure how to respond. She spoke openly about a subject he so often repressed. Before he had time to form a response Rusa started mumbling and got up to leave. Something about a kayran and balisse fruit. She dusted off some breadcrumbs and glanced at Roche.

"I fear I'm getting too comfortable," she said, her features cold and impassive as she left without another word.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Allow me to just say... THERE'S A LOT OF DIALOGUE IN THE WITCHER.

Disclaimer: If I owned The Witcher, I wonder what I'd think of this story...

* * *

The look on Sendler's face as Rusa handed over 150 orens was one of pure delight. He'd never seen so much money at once. His wide toothless grin was contagious and Rusa found herself smiling despite herself. It turned out Geralt gave his poker winnings to Ves who, in turn, gave Rusa 200 pieces. She pocketed 50 for herself, ignoring the blonde's comments about her miserable poker skills.

"Look, look here!" Sendler presented the bow and shrugged off a quiver of arrows. Rusa's eyes lit up. The body was strong and sleek with a decorative swirl throughout. She tested the string—tight but flexible. And the grip, perfectly moulded for her hands alone. She looked at Sendler in disbelief.

"You're a master craftsman."

He gave an embarrassed shrug and showed her the arrows. There were about thirty in total, each adorned with a distinctive pheasant feather.

"May I?" she asked, notching an arrow. Sendler nodded enthusiastically and moved a plank of wood up against the wall of his shack. Rusa drew the string slowly and released. The arrow lodged itself directly into the target.

"My good man, I'm in your debt," she said as Sendler went to retrieve the arrow. Rusa took out another 20 orens. "Here."

Sendler shook his head. "No, ma'am, 150, that's what we agreed."

"I insist." She placed the orens in his hand and hoisted the quiver over her shoulder. "Sendler of Lobinden, you've my thanks." The craftsman nodded and returned to his shack, the coin bag clinking merrily at his side.

Rusa turned and saw Geralt and Triss walking towards the village. The sorceress beckoned her over.

"Nice bow," said Geralt.

"Nice sword," Rusa replied, gesturing to the silver sword on his back.

"Rusa Elyot of Cintra. Made it out of the forest alive, I see." The three of them looked up to see Cedric peering down from the observation platform. His voice was even more slurred than before.

"Yes, well, no thanks to you," said Rusa.

Cedric stared at Geralt. "Witcher. Witcher, witcher. Your little friend said we'd meet."

"Are you Cedric?" asked Geralt. The elf tutted impatiently and returned to his duties.

"Come on," whispered Triss, and started climbing the platform.

"What do you want, Geralt of Rivia?" Cedric asked irritably as they reached the lookout. Rusa lingered at the back, taking care not to be drawn into a second conversation with the elf.

"I aim to kill the kayran. Heard you might be able to help," said Geralt.

Cedric glanced briefly at Rusa. "That depends on the sort of aid you seek."

"I need information."

"We should have killed it years ago. Now… Now, I don't know… The beast has become too large for the riverbed, and it has strange growths on its tentacles, extremely thick skin…"

Rusa gritted her teeth. Extremely thick skin. Would her arrows even be able to penetrate it? It was bound to have a weak spot…

"You should go see the wreck of the boat it recently sank," Cedric continued. "Inspect any traces its left, see the destruction. Venture south into the forest, then turn east at the river. You'll find the ruins of a bridge erected long ago by the Aen Seidhe. The wreck lies at their foot."

Triss conjured a portal and teleported to the wreck. Geralt and Rusa exchanged looks. After the previous events, both wondered if Triss was overusing the teleports.

"Why so concerned, Rusa Elyot?" Cedric's voice interrupted her thoughts. Rusa groaned inwardly and followed Geralt down the platform.

"Are we not speaking anymore?" he asked. She ignored him and trailed behind Geralt who'd already run into the forest.

* * *

By the time they reached the wreck Rusa had been able to test her new bow on several bandits and nekkers. She was beyond satisfied. Sendler had spared no effort in creating it. She imagined Geralt was pleased enough with his silver sword even if he didn't show it. Triss jogged up to them as they climbed down the rocky path that led to the boat. Rusa almost gagged at the sight. The wreck was covered in a thick, foul-smelling mucous.

"I'll cast a simple diagnostic spell. It should answer a few questions," said Triss. Rusa nodded and hid her nose in her sleeve. The sorceress conjured a small blue orb.

A strange look crossed her features. "This monster's sick. It's dying…"

"How much time does it have left?" asked Geralt.

Triss shrugged. "A few years, perhaps a decade. Too long, I know. The diagnostic spell showed that some of the cells in its body have mutated."

"What makes you think it's dying? I mean, I'm a mutant…"

Rusa suddenly felt very uncomfortable, like she was privy to a conversation she shouldn't be a part of. When Triss launched into an explanation of the core differences between mutants and non-mutants, she kept busy by searching for more balisse fruit. Hearing about the kayran's tentacles, its thick skin, seeing all this mucous…the more balisse fruit, the better.

"The kayran's highly venomous," said Triss. "Keep at a distance, Rusa, and you should be fine. Geralt, your witcher's metabolism may be able to neutralise small doses of the toxin but I wouldn't rely on my mutations alone. A mongoose potion should do the trick but you need to find some ostmurk. You could try Cedric. Here's the formula. I need to take care of some things. Manage without me for a while?"

Rusa rolled her eyes. Too much of Cedric was just…too much Cedric. Geralt turned to her as Triss teleported yet again. The redhead was going to get something worse than nose bleed if she continued at this pace.

"You collect the ostmurk while I talk to Sile." He handed her the formula which had some notes scrawled on the bottom. _Ostmurk…mold…caves._

"I feel you've got the easier task…"

"Don't be so sure," he replied. "I need to see to those contracts, as well. Will you search on your own or ask Cedric for directions?"

Rusa snorted. "I think he prefers me to wander around aimlessly."

They separated at a fork in the mountain path, Geralt heading back to Flotsam to deal with Sile, Rusa deciding where to try her luck. The witcher had given her several grapeshot bombs in case of nekkers. They hung awkwardly at her side and she worried that with all her movement they'd somehow explode whilst attached. She let out a small, deranged laugh.

After two hours of searching at the bottom of several cliffs she finally found a cave situated behind a waterfall. _Deep and wet enough for mold_ , she thought, tracing a hand against the wall. She ventured in further, squinting from the lack of light. Surely Geralt's eyes were more suited to this. Rusa pictured him talking with Sile, trying to negotiate and failing spectacularly. That sorceress knew what she wanted.

Rusa froze. A growl travelled through the cave, similar to the nekker from before but definitely belonging to something larger. She gripped her bow tightly and notched an arrow. Another growl, closer this time. Rusa coated the arrow in some balisse fruit paste. _May as well try it out_. As the noise neared she backed out of the cave slowly. Whatever it was, she'd be dead within a second if she fought it in the dark. The growls echoed off the walls, disorienting her. How close was it? She backtracked further until she reached the dim light of the cave entrance and adjusted her eyes. Her hands were trembling and she fought to steady the bow. It wasn't the thought of fighting that scared her, but not knowing the enemy.

Estimate. Aim for the head. Straight through the skull. Rusa readied herself, tilting her head to allow for a slither of light in the narrow passageway. A growl and a scuffing of feet. A silhouette emerged from below, not thirty feet from where she stood. Too dark to make the shot. Too dark to… Rusa released the arrow. Her stomach dropped when it clanged against the wall. The silhouette gained pace, a great hulking mass running towards her.

"Shit, shit, _shit_!" She released another arrow and sprinted out of the cave, the beast thundering behind her. It let out a horrifying snarl as the arrow pierced its chest. Rusa didn't look back.

She stumbled into the waterfall pool and waded hurriedly to edge. In the split second she was alone in the forest she noticed the birds had fallen silent. She pasted an arrow tip quickly and aimed at the entrance. The monster lingered hesitantly on the threshold and hissed at her through the cascade of water. Rusa took advantage and shot an arrow into its neck. It howled and hurled itself in her direction. A great big hunk of red flesh—a greater rotfiend she'd only heard of in stories. She notched another arrow. Straight through the skull this time… Or did it have a weak spot? Was there a spot weaker than the head?!

In her moment of doubt the rotfiend charged and tackled her to the ground. Rusa screamed as it clawed at her face, snapping its fangs against her hands as she shielded herself. This heaving mass on top of her, slime oozing out of its pores and splattering onto her skin, stinging her eyes. She threw a hand to the ground in search of a weapon. Pushing against its mouth she smashed a rock against the side of its head, simultaneously digging the arrow deeper into its neck until blood spurted down her arm. The rotfiend let out a guttural scream and stumbled back. Rusa kicked it in the chest for good measure and scrambled to her feet.

"Come on, you piece of shit!" She shot an arrow through its skull. She saw the blood spraying from the hole and winced. The rotfiend flailed around frantically, grasping at the arrows. Suddenly, it stopped screaming. Time seemed to suspend as it swayed from side to side. Without warning, the beast exploded. Rusa yelped as something acidic splashed her face. A slight tingle at first, then a burning sensation. She panicked and jumped into the pool, scrubbing furiously at her cheek. When the burning lessened she was left a dull itch. She ran a finger over the area; the skin was sticky and rough. If she didn't treat it soon the tissue would scar.

She climbed into the cave and ventured down. As the adrenaline left her body she started shaking. The ostmurk was in an inconspicuous little corner next to what she assumed to be the rotfiend's secret horde. She pocketed a generous amount and made her way back to the waterfall. She was about to step through when an arrow lodged itself in the wall only inches from her face. Rusa tensed. Behind the haze of the water she saw him standing on the other side of the pool, bow poised, waiting. Moments passed, neither one moving. She took a deep breath and stepped onto the ledge. She felt naked and vulnerable without the water for a shield. She was completely exposed with an arrow trained on her skull.

"Very entertaining," said Iorveth, his eye fixed on her every move. He motioned with his bow for her to come down. She waded through the water and flushed in embarrassment at the silence. In her peripheral vision she saw the bow following her as she climbed out of the pool. Despite every instinct insisting on the opposite, Rusa didn't break eye contact.

The elf regarded her coolly. "Try to run and you die. Reach for your weapon and you die. Understood?" She nodded.

"I'm surprised to find you still alive considering your choice of company. Am I to assume your commander remains unawares?

"He's not my commander."

"Is that so? If I recall correctly you slaughtered _my_ men, not his!" He drew his bow tighter. "I should kill you where you stand."

Rusa bit her tongue to keep from lashing out. She was tired of being the scapegoat for both the Blue Stripes and the Scoia'tael. In Iorveth, she saw Roche. This was the Roche interrogation all over again. She hated them both.

"Fortunately for you, I need answers," the elf said.

"So, you'll get your answers then kill me. You, or the archers that shadow your every step. Is that how this is going to work?"

He gave a grim smile, emphasising the jagged scar running up his cheek. "And refuse you the chance to run off to Roche like a lost dog? I'd take no pleasure in that."

Rusa snorted. She expected as much. The two men were locked in a vicious battle of one-upmanship. They saw each other as not only rivals but also equals. Everyone else was just a pawn in their little game of cat and mouse, herself included. She wondered briefly what would happen if one was to finally kill the other. They'd have to find a new purpose in life.

"Seems I've hit a nerve."

"Hardly," replied Rusa with a patronising smile. She flinched when Iorveth twitched the hand clasping his bow. His lips quirked slightly.

"This morning we found some of the Scoia'tael ambushed and killed," he said, expression stern again. "Ciaran aep Easnillen's warriors. His body was not among them."

Rusa pressed her lips into a thin line. "How unfortunate."

"For you. My scouts tell me you spoke with him."

"Your scouts are wrong," she snapped, bewildered. Did he truly think she'd just have a friendly chat with one of his Scoia'tael? Her mind flashed to the previous afternoon in the forest. The nekker running towards her, an arrow in its heart…the elf…

Iorveth watched as realisation dawned on her. Brow furrowed, eyes cast to the ground darting back and forth in furious thought. She looked so small, standing there trying to digest the information, clothes soaked through, limp strands of hair plastered to her forehead. Little quadroon holed up with the Blue Stripes commander. To align herself with _Vernon Roche_! Iorveth fought the urge to shoot an arrow through her skull. She'd stumbled into a game far greater than she could imagine. Letho had pointed her out that time in the forest. He'd seen her before killing Foltest and she'd seen him. This little dh'oine was a liability. She needed to die.

Rusa looked at him with a strange expression. "Yes…"

"I'm told he spared your life." His patience was wearing thin. If this woman had caused the loss of his second-in-command, he'd take pleasure in watching her die. He'd see to it himself. He'd make her suffer until she begged him to end her miserable life. "A fatal mistake, it seems."

Rusa blanched at the insinuation. "You think _I_ caused his disappearance?" She glared at him in disgust. "You're right to say he spared my life. Do you truly believe I'd repay him by ending his?"

"You've no trouble ending the lives of my men, recently and in the past," Iorveth hissed. She stared at him in confusion. Was he referring to Brenna? "Considering the company you keep, why should I assume any different?"

"For the last time, I'm _not_ aligned with the Blue Stripes! Your Scoia'tael didn't even tell me his name. A nekker attacked me, he shot it through the heart, threatened to shoot me, _didn't_ shoot me, and then left. I told no one about our encounter. What more would you have me say?"

For the briefest moment, Iorveth considered lowering his bow. He wouldn't believe her. He couldn't. Ciaran was dead because of the stupid little dh'oine in front of him, breathing heavily and clenching her fists. There was no other explanation. She ran off to Roche, told him all she knew, smiled as she received a pat on the head for being a faithful little dog. Ciaran's warriors were then ambushed and killed by the Blue Stripes. Iorveth ignored the slither of doubt. Cruel in its persistence, it reminded him of the fact that Ciaran's whereabouts remained unknown. Taken prisoner perhaps?

"You will tell me the truth," he said barely able to contain his anger. Rusa folded her arms and waited. Iorveth wanted to slice that haughty expression off her face; a face, he noted with disdain, which revealed subtle elvish features depending on the light. "Where is Ciaran aep Easnillen?"

She gritted her teeth. "I don't know."

"Roche's men. Are they responsible?"

"No."

"Why should I believe you?"

"You shouldn't," Rusa barked. "If you're going to kill me then do it. I've nothing else to say. Except that the Scoia'tael have a traitor in their midst." She spoke so casually that Iorveth almost missed it. She didn't seem to understand the weight of her words. He lowered his bow.

"Speak, quickly."

Rusa hoped she appeared calmer than she felt on the inside. She had no idea what she was talking about. She also no longer had an arrow aimed at her face. It seemed she'd got the elf's attention. She considered her options. What to say in the hopes she might live? The Blue Stripes weren't responsible. Rusa had been with Ves in the tavern and then Roche later that night. No, someone else was to blame. The face flooded her memory. Bald, giant of a man. The kingslayer. _Iorveth's ally_. She took a chance.

"Someone who joined your ranks recently, I suppose."

Iorveth stared at her evenly. "It's his word against yours."

"For now," she replied, sweaty palms and shaky breaths betraying her confident façade. She knew he could see right through it. The way his eye narrowed in on her, scrutinising her every movement. He and Roche, so different in appearance, and yet so similar in their ability to make a person feel totally insignificant with a single glance. She inhaled slowly and tried to keep her voice steady. "Why do you trust him?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"You attacked us on the river bank for no reason. You owe me an explanation."

The elf let out a short bark of laughter. "I owe you nothing. The only dh'oine I owe anything to is Roche. But believe me I shall pay that debt soon."

A shiver ran up Rusa's spine. The sun was disappearing and the cold was setting in. She pressed on, eager to sate her curiousity. "Hiring a trained assassin to do your dirty work, murdering kings… Clearly you've a goal beyond seeing Roche suffer a horrible death."

Again, a surprising twitch of the lips. "What's it to you, Rusa Elyot of Xin'trea?"

"My life now depends on your whim, so I'm curious…" she replied, trying to ignore the discomfort at hearing her name roll effortlessly off his tongue.

Iorveth considered her for a moment. The girl was not to be trusted. He could read her easily but there had to be more. She had to be hiding _something_ else. The look on her face, though, when he accused her of Ciaran's disappearance. Incredulous. Genuine disbelief. _Angry_ even, at being blamed for such a thing. A disturbing realisation dawned on Iorveth: he might be able to read her but he was perplexed by what he saw.

"Then listen well," he said with an enigmatic tone. "The two dead kings were whoresons who damned their own children to stay in power. But in the east there's someone truly deserving of a crown…"

Rusa refrained from screaming at him for causing Foltest's children to fall into the hands of Nilfgaard. _Better to leave them out of this_ , she thought, fearing a reminder that the children lived would see _them_ assassinated. Iorveth would see no problem in murdering innocent children. _Just like Roche_. Rusa eyes started stinging and she focused on the elf in front of her. "Someone deserving of a crown? If you tell me it's a member of the Scoia'tael—"

" _She_ is beyond your understanding, dh'oine!" snapped Iorveth.

"She?" Rusa couldn't believe what she was hearing. "A human?"

"Beyond your understanding," he repeated. "Someone who harbours dreams of a better future for all races."

"All races?" Rusa laughed at the hypocrisy. "You care? You attack and murder the people of Flotsam forgetting that elves and dwarves live among them!"

His eye bored into hers. "That's no life. They've been stripped of self-respect, forced to live and die by human laws."

"You've no right to dictate people's lives!"

"Says she who accompanies _Vernon Roche_ ," Iorveth spat venomously. He repositioned his bow and felt the peculiar pleasure in seeing her wince. "We've spoken long enough. What should I do with you?" The question was aimed at himself. Was she right about Letho? She'd planted the seed of doubt. _Impressive_ , he thought, if she was actually trying to manipulate him. But there was another doubt, clearer and more concrete. She wasn't.

"Geralt might know something about Ciaran," said Rusa hurriedly.

"The vatt'ghern's out to clear his name so I daresay he'll say similar to you."

"Just let me talk to him. If I get no information…and if I'm to be your _scapegoat_ ," she added hotly, "you know where to find me."

After an uncomfortable pause, Iorveth spoke. "You've a curious sense of honour, Rusa Elyot. Know that if you're lying I'll not hesitate to gut you myself."

"I get it."

"I don't think so…" he started, then lowered his bow and flicked his head dismissively. Rusa didn't waste anytime. She started back to town, her muscles tense and aching. She needed to return before dark. That wasn't her main concern, though. She'd just turned her back on a notorious murderer with a bow. She ran for her life.

* * *

Rusa stormed into the Blue Stripes headquarters, out of breath and dishevelled. Roche gave her a passing glance then continued with his work. Triss sat in the corner watching some of the men play cards.

"I need to find Geralt," Rusa said dodging the gauntlet of stray pieces of armour and crumpled bedding.

The sorceress looked up in surprise. "He's taking care of kayran. He and Sile set off a few hours ago. I thought you were with him…" They made their way over to another table, Triss more than happy with the distraction.

"Ah. Well, I've some ostmurk if another kayran comes along in the meantime," Rusa replied. Triss studied her face and ran a finger along the rotfiend wound. She rummaged through the formulas hanging from her belt and started applying a strange silvery liquid.

"There'll be some scarring but this should help."

"I feel like someone's always cleaning my wounds," Rusa mumbled, unable to hide the resentment in her voice. The man sitting at the desk had caused most of them. She waited until Triss sat back and then lowered her voice. "I need to talk to Geralt about Ciaran aep Easnillen."

The redhead gave her a warning look. "Einar Gausel might have something on it," she said and got up to leave. Rusa followed, confused. "He deals in antique books…" They passed Roche's desk and stepped into the market square.

"Take care of your words," she said, strolling towards the nonhuman district. Rusa recognised Ylvan's house and saw the elf tending to a small patch of garden. His face was swollen and bruised with some stitching around the lips. Rusa sneaked a glance in the window and noticed familiar blonde curls bobbing about in the kitchen. She smiled.

"Tell me everything," Triss continued. They sat on a wooden bench not far from the smithy. Rusa recounted the scene in the forest. The redhead raised her eyebrows when she heard of the encounter with Ciaran. Rusa blushed. She hadn't told anyone about Ciaran and now, watching Triss try to make sense of it all, she felt guilty for being so secretive. Who could blame her, though? Roche would strangle her on the spot if he found out she'd been consorting with the enemy. When Rusa mentioned her suspicions of Letho, Triss nodded. "We know what he's capable of. What did Iorveth say?"

"He was surprised."

Triss frowned. "Surprised?"

"It was obvious the thought hadn't occurred to him," said Rusa. "Why would it? Especially with the Blue Stripes in Flotsam."

Triss stared at the ground, deep in thought. Rusa took advantage of the silence and sank into her own thoughts. She wondered what Iorveth was doing right now. Discussing things with his unit? Unlikely. After all, he'd lost his second-in-command. Speaking with Letho, pretending to be none the wiser? Rusa dwelled on the kingslayer. _Why_ betray the Scoia'tael? What was there to gain? They'd obviously helped him greatly with Foltest's assassination. They were an important ally. If not, they were a formidable opponent. Something didn't add up. If the kingslayer wished to continue slaying kings, he'd need the Scoia'tael more than ever.

"Ah, Geralt! All went well, I suppose." Rusa turned to the gruff voice of the smithy and saw the witcher handing over his silver sword for repairs.

"My thanks, Berthold." He looked over at Rusa and Triss. "Are Roche's men that bad?"

Triss was tracing a circle in the dirt with the tip of her shoe, a frown on her face. She didn't seem to hear him. Rusa looked confused. "What?"

Geralt handed Berthold some coin. "Why are you both sitting there in the dark?"

Triss looked up then and smiled at Geralt. Rusa jumped up. "Just talking. Glad you're here. Sorry about the ostmurk. How was the kayran?" she asked.

"Slimey," he replied and took the newly vacated seat. Triss touched his arm lightly and studied him in the failing light, checking for wounds. "Where were you?"

"Whilst collecting the ostmurk I ran into a horrible creature. I also encountered a rotfiend."

There was an awkward moment of silence before Triss's laughter punctured the air. It was the first time Rusa had heard her laugh. By the look on the redhead's face, the sound seemed just as foreign. Geralt turned to Triss with an amused expression. Triss's shoulders shook violently and Rusa couldn't help but laugh. Relief overwhelmed them. Here in filthy old Flotsam, sitting in the dark next to the dwarven smithy, they laughed; a rare moment, heavy and bittersweet in its relief. Rusa stored the memory away knowing she'd need to relive it in the coming days.

Triss wiped her eyes. "Sorry, Geralt. Rusa met Iorveth in the forest."

"Cornered," Rusa emphasised. "He cornered me outside the ostmurk cave. Geralt, despite the laughter this is serious. He asked me about Ciaran aep Easnillen—"

"Iorveth's right-hand elf," Triss added.

"Right. The other day I was collecting balisse fruit and Ciaran happened upon me whilst I was fighting off a nekker. He let me live. His unit was ambushed and killed yesterday. His body was not among them. Iorveth thinks me to blame." Rusa exhaled sharply. She'd left out the finer details but no matter.

"But you're here now so I'm guessing you told him something different," said Geralt. The two of them exchanged knowing looks.

"Letho—the kingslayer, Geralt—may have betrayed the Scoia'tael," Triss went on.

Geralt gave a soft 'hmm'. "Perhaps. Find Ciaran, we find Iorveth. Find Iorveth, we find Letho. Could this be a trap?"

Rusa shrugged. "Iorveth's frustration was real. When I said the Scoia'tael had a traitor in their midst he seemed genuinely shocked. Roche isn't to blame either. I was with him last night."

A slight pause in the conversation then Triss cut in. "We need to find Ciaran. Geralt, any ideas where he might be?"

"When I visited Loredo he mentioned something about a prison barge in the port…"

"A barge?" asked Triss. "Are we suggesting that Letho kidnapped Ciaran and handed him over to Loredo?"

"I doubt it but it's worth a shot," said Rusa.

The barge was guarded by two of Flotsam's finest sentinels. After refusing them entry with a smugness perculiar to Loredo's men, Geralt performed an axii charm and pushed past them. Rusa wondered how often the witcher used this particular sign. _Imagine manipulating Roche_. Would it even work on him?

She noticed the elf first. Crumpled in the corner of the barge, Ciaran aep Easnillen laid in a pool of dirty water and blood. Rusa ran to him and dropped to her knees.

"Triss!" The shakiness of her voice of surprised her.

The redhead bent down and placed her hands gently on the elf's back. "They beat him bad. He's got at least a dozen fractures." She glanced at Geralt. "I'll need your help."

The witcher gave a nod. He waited for Triss to conjure up a large blue orb over Ciaran's body and proceeded to perform the axii charm. Rusa stepped back, overwhelmed by the glow.

"It's no use," said Geralt as the glow receded.

Ciaran spoke suddenly, his voice hoarse. "You wish, whoreson! I'm no traitor!"

"He's raving," said Triss.

"Vatt'ghern?!" Ciaran looked up at Geralt in disbelief. "Where am I?"

"In Flotsam," Triss said and hesitated. "On the prison barge."

Ciaran's eyes widened. "The convicts' barge?" He glanced at Rusa and a look of recognition crossed his face. He dropped his head in resignation. "I'm done for."

"We need your help," said Geralt. "We need to speak with Iorveth."

"Like hell, dh'oine! I'll tell you nothing."

Rusa cut in. "Iorveth thinks you dead, Ciaran. We spoke yesterday—" she held up a hand when he tried to interrupt—"very unfriendly, let me assure you. He blames me for your disappearance. I hinted that the kingslayer might be responsible…"

Ciaran glared at her. "Like every dh'oine, he turned out to be a bastard."

"What happened?" Geralt asked.

"He betrayed us. He said he had an offer for me. So we met—where roses of remembrance grow. I should have known…"

Triss spoke up. "Roses of remembrance?"

"Yes, some of the last in the world." Ciaran struggled for breath and brought a hand to his chest. "He thought that I'd betray my elven brother in order to control the unit. I refused, and there was a fight. I've never seen a human move that fast. I'd have bled to death had Loredo's men not found me." He looked at Rusa with desperation. "Letho will kill Iorveth and all will be lost. So many dead, so much suffering, all for naught."

Iorveth's voice shattered Rusa's thoughts. _In the east there's someone truly deserving of a crown… Someone who harbours dreams of a better future for all races._

"Why does Letho want Iorveth dead?" she asked. Her heart seized momentarily when Ciaran dropped his gaze, ashamed and embarrassed.

"He used us. From the start. Our hatred. But he no longer needs Iorveth, sees him as a thorn in his side. But I don't know what Letho wants…"

"What does Iorveth want?" demanded Geralt. The elf swore at him and the witcher shrugged. "You've got no choice. Tell me or I'll kill you—"

"No! If I die, Iorveth doesn't learn the truth." Ciaran shuffled slightly and growled to stifle the pain. "Flotsam's only the beginning. We're no bandits; we fight for freedom! In due time, Iorveth will answer the call and we'll emerge from the woods, joining the battle."

Geralt frowned. "What battle?"

"He wasn't specific. Warn him, Gwynbleidd. Iorveth fights, for that is what he does best. He's Aen Seidhe—a real one, a free one. Among the last. Fighting makes sense—now more than ever before." He scanned Rusa's face. She coloured under his scrutiny. "There is still hope."

"Hope for what?" asked Geralt.

"Iorveth spoke of someone in the east," said Rusa, eyes locked with Ciaran's. He looked at her in a daze, his vision was fading. "Someone truly deserving of a crown that harbours dreams of a better future for all races…"

"Yes," he said breathlessly. "Hope for change, for a better tomorrow. I'll not see it—they'll torment me to death on this barge and I'll go gladly where the apple trees bloom. You must warn Iorveth." He collapsed to the floor, breathing heavily.

Triss looked at Rusa with concern before asking Geralt, "What now?"

"Iorveth," he said simply and headed for the stairs.

"We can't just leave him here!" said Rusa, unable to keep her voice level. "At least… He can't make it out. We should at least…" She couldn't get the words out and gritted her teeth in frustration. "He's suffered enough."

"There's nothing we can do," said Geralt glancing over his shoulder. He climbed above deck.

"He's right," said Triss quietly and gestured for Rusa to go up the stairs. When the latter refused to move the redhead sighed and bent over the elf. A small pinkish glow emanated from her hands and spread over Ciaran's body. The air around them hummed softly. She looked up at Rusa. "If they torture him in the next few hours, he'll feel nothing. Now, come on."


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: *something witty*

* * *

Rusa left Geralt and Triss once they exited the barge. The witcher had one of his flashbacks again and Triss mentioned something about using a rose of remembrance to help him regain his memory. Whatever it was, it seemed private. More private than usual.

She walked back to headquarters, stumbling over potholes and stepping in some kind of muddy slush on the way. She was about to open the door but fell back when the tip of a knife splintered the wood. Pacing footsteps, the sound of a chair scraping the floorboards, and then silence. Rusa waited a moment then stepped in. Roche stood hunched over his desk, fingers drumming the edge impatiently. He glanced up.

"Where've you been?" He looked back down and shuffled several diagrams. "Actually, I don't care."

Rusa kept quiet. The commander was in one of his moods. She searched the building for some company. After the day she'd had, she wouldn't say no to a game of gwent. Anything to take her mind of Ciaran's limp body lying in a pool of his own blood in the prison barge. Left there to die. Triss had done what she could. They could've done more.

Where was everyone? The headquarters was deserted.

"I've sent out some scouts," Roche mumbled, annoyed by her incessant wandering. "As for the others I'd wager they're at the inn. We attack tomorrow."

"Attack?" Rusa asked and started shuffling some playing cards. She came up next to Roche and studied the diagrams again. "Loredo's residence?"

"Exactly. The third floor—stop that!" He snatched the cards and threw them to the floor. She pretended not to notice and looked at the sketches with exaggerated interest. Roche pressed his lips into a thin line. "You're a child." She traced a finger around the layout of the residence, stopping at the kitchen and looking at Roche expectantly. "No."

"What?" she asked.

"Stop doing that," he said sharply.

"You're not going to scout the kitchen?" she looked at him in amazement. "Who knows what lurks down there."

"The commandant's fat mother, I presume."

Rusa balked. "Loredo has a mother?"

"Can we move on?" Roche brushed her hand away.

"You came here for the kingslayer. What's Loredo done? Apart from being a corrupt bastard…" She had another question, of course. One she didn't want the answer to. _Why are you telling me this…?_

"We'll discuss the plan in detail tomorrow night," he replied hastily. "Speaking of the kingslayer, I've had news."

"Really?" Rusa fought to keep her voice steady. She couldn't be sure of her facial expression, though. Roche's scrutiny often managed to undermine her self-discipline. She pressed on. "Anything worth pursuing?"

He gave a small shrug but his determination didn't waver. "We take our victories where we can in a place like this."

"A little town deep in the forest, terrorised by Scoia'tael? You should be in your element," said Rusa lightly. She felt his gaze on her face, slightly surprised but also distinctly amused.

"Flotsam isn't just any old town. Temeria, Redania, Kaedwen and Aedirn—the largest kingdoms in the North. Know what they all have in common?"

She rolled her eyes. She was never one to excel at geographical studies. What were the similarities? Temeria's king was assassinated. The kings of Redania and Kaedwan still lived. As far as she knew, Aedirn was currently disputed land, war-torn and in a state of revolt. Temeria was to the west of Flotsam, Aedirn to the east, Kaedwan north and… Aedirn to the east… Memories flooded back. Iorveth's prophetic warnings, Ciaran's pleas. This woman Iorveth spoke of. Did she reside in Aedirn? Rusa's pulse quickened. The headquarters was suddenly suffocating.

"Enlighten me," she said, praying Roche hadn't picked up on her panic.

"The Pontar Valley." His eyes bored into hers. She bit her tongue and fought to maintain her composure. "A strip of land these kingdoms have been battling over for generations. And here's Flotsam. On the border between Temeria and Aedirn, with Kaedwen lying in wait just the other side of the marshes."

"At the very edge of the Pontar Valley," Rusa mused.

"Stuck in the middle like a candle up the arse," he said and she stifled a laugh. "Anyway, my people saw the kingslayer again. He knows we're here but he's not even trying to escape. I've sent scouts to keep an eye on him." He shot her a sidelong glance. "Seems he's waiting for something."

Rusa flushed and turned back to the diagrams. "Let me understand this. Capturing the kingslayer, that was the original goal. Iorveth, too, I imagine." Roche's jaw clenched upon mention of the elf. "And we _must_ find Anaïs and Boussy. I take it you haven't forgotten. Now you see the need to take down Loredo. Perhaps you've…" She hesitated and he waved a hand for her to continue. "Why get embroiled in Flotsam's nonsense?"

Roche considered her for a moment. He hadn't missed the colouring of her cheeks when he'd discussed the kingslayer. She knew something. Something _he_ didn't. He watched as she traced a finger aimlessly over the sketches again. Slightly calloused but still delicate. Her hands, though, were covered in cuts. He studied her swiftly. Several cuts on the throat, a telling gash below the eye. Her shirt and breeches were the mottled grey of clothing previously soaked through. Rain hadn't hit Flotsam since they'd arrived. Where had she been all day? Geralt had mentioned the kayran but she'd returned before him. Without warning, Roche felt the urge to snap her finger in half. It stemmed from the feeling he despised more than anything—that of being kept in the dark.

Rusa glanced up and caught him off guard. She gave a wry smile. "I know I look a mess." She flopped onto Ves's bed—the one that didn't reek of sweat—and groaned as she stretched.

Annoyed by her flippancy, Roche stacked the papers and threw them to the side. He slumped into his chair, fingers steepled in contemplation. He watched as she let out a loud yawn, remembering to cover her mouth at the last second. His anger eased somewhat. "You look fine."

Rusa frowned inwardly and looked away. "That's…kind." She draped an arm over her forehead and sighed. "Are you going to tell me what Bernard Loredo's done to earn the ire of Vernon Roche, or should I try to guess?"

She peeked out from under her arm as Roche opened his mouth to say something then thought better of it. He caught her eye and spoke slowly. "The commandant's a traitor to Temeria. We don't let his kind live."

"A traitor?" she asked, surprised. "On what grounds?"

"He has a deal with Kaedwen," Roche murmured. He glanced out the window with a concerned look. It couldn't have been long till dawn. "More on that later. Let's go." He gave the bedspread a hard tug and bit back a laugh as she tumbled to the floor.

Rusa gritted her teeth. "Go where?"

"My scouts should have returned by now," he said, armour rattling as he adjusted his belt. "We need to check on them. We've seen the kingslayer several times in the elven ruins. Apparently, he likes to sit amongst the roses and ponder over life's big questions. The scouts are positioned there. Go get Ves and the others. Meet me at the gates as soon as possible." Roche stormed outside without another word. _We'll see what side she's on_.

Dazed, Rusa digested the information and ran to the inn. _Amongst the roses?_ Triss and Geralt… She panicked and quickened her pace.

* * *

Much to her displeasure, Ves insisted on equipping Rusa with spare Blue Stripes armour.

"You'd be stupid to go out without this," she said, handing over a breastplate. Ves held up a sword to which Rusa adamantly shook her head. The blonde sighed impatiently. "You need to learn eventually."

"Against a training dummy, preferably."

Ves gave a small smile. "Vernon said you fought the Scoia'tael at Brenna."

"With a bow."

Outside the town gates, Rusa stood amongst the Blue Stripes, donning the blue combat jacket with the Temerian emblem emblazoned on its front. She groaned inwardly at the thought of being seen by the Scoia'tael not only accompanying Roche but dressing up like his little protégé. It would be light soon. She shuddered, thankful for the remaining darkness but unable to shake the feeling that she was about to become neck-deep in—

"Rusa, I need you to listen." All eyes were on her. She shot Roche an incredulous glare. She almost couldn't believe it. Had she misheard? Why now, with her thoughts in turmoil? She narrowed her eyes at him. What was he doing? Finally calling her by name… He stared back at her with an unreadable expression. A line had been crossed.

Rusa's jaw set and she spoke slowly, softly, her voice laced with contempt. "My apologies, _Vernon_."

He seemed satisfied and continued addressing the men. Rusa tried to ignore the burning sensation spreading across her cheeks. She'd become used to being nameless around Roche. It granted her a certain level of privacy even if it were only an illusion. And an illusion it undoubtedly was, so quick to shatter at the sound of him speaking her name. In front of his unit, no less. She hated the intrusion. And she knew he'd have considered this before saying it. If she was certain about one thing it was that Roche chose his words carefully in front of her. She'd caught him off guard occasionally but he was always quick to counteract any shred of triumph.

"…the elven ruins." Rusa caught the last of the instructions and lingered behind as the group trudged into the forest. Lobinden was just to the east, its central fire pit glowing faintly in the distance. She found herself dwelling inanely on Cedric, wondering if the elf was getting drunk on the observation platform. Suddenly seized with desperation, Rusa stared at where she imagined he stood overlooking the forest, swaying and slurring slightly but never losing sight of his surroundings for a second.

"What are you waiting for?" Roche gestured towards the forest. Rusa bit the inside of her lip and pushed past him. She drew up next to Ves who glanced at her briefly before focusing ahead.

"Keep your wits about you," she said softly. Rusa noted the double meaning and gave an imperceptible nod. Ves may be unquestionably loyal to Roche but, unlike her commander, she seemed to possess morals.

They skulked through the forest in silence with Roche occasionally signalling for someone to run ahead and scope out the vicinity. Rusa kept up her pace, vaguely aware of flashes of blue darting either side of her. As the sun rose, so did her anxiety. She focused on the boots in front of her and tuned in to the faint chirping of birds. The forest was waking up.

The boots came to a halt. Then, a familiar sound. Rusa's head snapped up. The waterfall. This is where the roses of remembrance grew? She felt her face grow hot. Elven ruins… No wonder Iorveth found her. Where were Geralt and Triss? Roche held up a hand, sword drawn. Ves stiffened and unsheathed her blade slowly.

Rusa drew her bow and spun around at the sound. A faint rustling noise coming from the bushes. She'd heard it. By the look on Ves's face, she wasn't the only one. They stood there poised for whatever laid beyond. A twig snapped and a body stumbled forward, barely managing to stay upright. Roche lowered his sword warily. It was one of his.

"Igo," he called. The scout looked up in a daze. Roche pressed on. "What news?"

Igo opened his mouth to say something then shut it again. He started swaying slightly. Roche raised his sword in response. Rusa tightened her grip. The sound of Igo's stumbling footsteps punctured the air. He came to halt, staring straight at his commander. It was then Rusa noticed it; the thin trail of blood leaking from his lips. The scout's gaze lingered on Roche. He looked confused. Rusa's heart sped up. He looked _ashamed_. Ves started towards him but was swiftly reprimanded.

"…Took us by surprise," Igo said, a strange expression on his face. "Took…"

The scout collapsed to the ground, an arrow lodged in his back. Roche swore under his breath and ordered the group to spread out.

"Find the others!"

Rusa spoke up. "Geralt and Triss might be here. We need to—"

An arrow whistled through the air and lodged itself in the ground between them. A warning shot. Roche yelled for the men to take cover. He grabbed Rusa by the collar and practically threw her into a rocky ditch. She found her footing and aimed an arrow at the source. She was about to release when she heard the click of a crossbow. A dull thud. One Scoia'tael less. She glanced over at the marksman. She couldn't remember his name. Her stomach dropped when she heard the familiar whistling of multiple arrows. She braced herself for the onslaught.

A body tumbled into the ditch causing her to crack her head against the rock.

"The fuck—"

"Geralt and Triss are here?" Roche manoeuvred himself around Rusa. She stared at him frantically and pushed him away.

"You're going to get shot!" she yelled, as another barrage of arrows rained down on them.

"I appreciate the concern. Come on, we need to find them." He yanked her up by the arm and started racing towards a steep slope near the waterfall. The man had a death wish. Rusa waited for the next lot of arrows to find their mark then ran after him. The urgency and adrenaline, unending Scoia'tael arrows; like Brenna all over again.

They reached the top of the hill and despite the chaos Rusa was taken aback by her surroundings. The elven ruins, beautiful even in their decay, were surrounded by rows of luscious pink roses. _Roses of remembrance_. A stone monument of two lovers embracing resided in the centre. She would remember the sight, the one shred of beauty she'd seen since arriving in this hellhole. She imagined how the place would have looked before being destroyed. Glorious and romantic. And then, humans. She looked at Roche. He probably delighted in the destruction.

He was standing over a large hole, squinting into the darkness. Rusa peered in curiously. Amidst the din of the battlefield, they heard muffled voices.

She followed Roche as he strode off down the other side of the hill. Ves's distinctive voice rang out from below, shouting orders. Rusa was overwhelmed with relief at the sound.

"Geralt!" Roche yelled, placing a palm against a fissure in the rock. He felt around for a moment then paused. "Geralt!" He took a step back. Rusa grabbed his arm.

"Must you destroy _everything_?"

"It's already in ruins," he replied and kicked in the wall. Without a thought, Roche jumped down.

"There you are, Geralt," he said as Rusa climbed down. She looked around her in awe. Four pillars adorned with vines and roses surrounded a large pool. The waterfall cascaded over a boulder, echoing throughout the hall.

"This is nice…" Roche continued, admiring the view. He looked at Rusa, enjoying the annoyed look on her face. "What a beautiful place."

"Very…" said Triss with a dreamy expression. There was an awkward pause. Rusa blushed. If they'd arrived any earlier…

"Yes, well…" Roche trailed off.

"How'd you find us?" asked Geralt.

"Finding those I seek is a speciality of mine," he replied, glad for the distraction. He waved a hand towards Rusa. "I was also informed of your whereabouts. Now, let's get out of here—the Scoia'tael are out in droves."

They headed towards the hole, Rusa and Triss falling behind the two men. Geralt's soft voice filled the silence.

"I found a patient's chart in the ruins of a hospital."

"You mean the burned down insane asylum?" Roche asked in disbelief. Rusa tuned out as they climbed up to the ruins. Ves ran up to them, breathing heavily.

"We need to leave," she said. "The way is clear for the moment."

"Any hurt?" demanded Roche. "Did you find the others?"

"None hurt. Oven and Thirteen are below. Just Igo…" Ves cast her eyes downwards.

Roche nodded and walked briskly down the hill. "Collect the body," he called back. Rusa picked up the strain in his voice. "We're returning to town."

* * *

As soon as they reached the town square the Blue Stripes marched back to their headquarters, Roche leading the pack with furious strides. Rusa watched them go, somehow feeling separated from them. Fenn hauled Igo's limp body over his shoulder. Would they bury him here in Flotsam?

"We need to find Zoltan," Geralt said as he followed her gaze. Rusa gave a small nod and headed to the inn. They found the dwarf coughing into a mug of ale. Triss fell into conversation with Dandelion.

"Geralt! Where yer been?" cried Zoltan, glancing at Rusa and wiping his beard quickly.

"Zoltan, I need to ask a favour."

The dwarf eyed them suspiciously. "Shoot."

"I heard you know the local Scoia'tael," said Geralt.

Zoltan's eyebrows shot up. He folded his arms. "You heard? Meanin' some goat's arse in a helmet hollered it out in the market square?"

"We need to find Iorveth," Rusa cut in.

"You know… I don't want you thinkin' I'm all chummy with Scoia'tael," he said hastily. "And Iorveth detests me. Why would you want to see him anyway?"

"He knows where the kingslayer is."

Zoltan scratched his beard. "Iorveth? And hear I thought him a common thug… Alright. No reason to sit on our arses. Come on—you can tell me everythin' on the way."

The dwarf led them outside the gates. "Tell me, who said I have contacts with the Scoia'tael?" Geralt told him it was Loredo and Zoltan swore loudly.

"That's why he wanted to hang you—for making deals with the squirrels?" asked Rusa.

He turned on her. "What?! I met a few, yes, but made no fuckin' deals."

"What about their leader?" Geralt asked.

"They say Iorveth's mad, but the Scoia'tael are at his beck and call." Zoltan shrugged. "Sod knows what he wants." Geralt and Rusa exchanged looks.

"Tell you what," the dwarf continued, "of two evils, Loredo's the bigger prick. He stirs up the locals against nonhumans. And there's word he's colluding with Kaedwen."

Rusa perked up. Seemed Roche was right, as usual. With a sudden jolt she remembered the Blue Stripes jacket and tore it off. "What are Loredo's reasons?" A buckle caught in her hair and she stumbled around blindly trying to keep up the pace.

"Greed! Come on, we've got a long way to go."

They fell into a jog and continued on in silence, crossing paths with several nekkers on the way. Apart from this the forest was eerily quiet. Zoltan stopped suddenly in a clearing.

"This is it," he said breathlessly. "I was due to meet them here."

"I know. They're aiming arrows at us," responded Geralt, unmoved. Rusa snapped her eyes to the trees. The dwarf complained about being made fun of before the witcher cut him off. "Give them the password."

"What 'them'?" Zoltan's eyes darted frantically from tree to tree.

"Hurry up. They're getting edgy," said Geralt.

Zoltan gave a frustrated grunt and shouted: "KIER-KE-GAARD!

Two elves strolled towards them. Rusa's fingers itched to grab her bow but she resisted. The she-elf eyed her warily before turning her attention on the dwarf. "Stop bawling," she drawled. "What do you want?"

Zoltan shuffled uncomfortably. "Countersign."

The other elf glared at him. "Hei-de-gger. Answer the question."

"Take us to Iorveth," the dwarf said.

"Why?"

"If we wanted to speak with you, we wouldn't ask for your leader," interrupted Geralt. Rusa raised her eyebrows. That was bound to sting. The elf folded his arms and stared at Geralt in disgust.

"Iorveth won't talk with _you_ ," he spat. _Wrong_ , thought Rusa. They had information.

Geralt turned his head slightly. "There are four more archers in that tree," he said softly. Neither elf could hide their surprise.

"How do you know?"

"I can hear them breathing. One's sick or on fisstech." The elf opened his mouth to speak but Geralt cut him off. "He's wheezing."

Zoltan snorted. "What? You elven cocks gone soft?"

"We just want to talk to Iorveth," Rusa said hurriedly. The elves stared at her with contempt. She couldn't blame them. Twice now they'd seen her with Vernon Roche. She wondered if they'd seen her with Iorveth, as well. Most likely they were very confused. So was she.

The she-elf clicked her tongue impatiently. "Wait in the clearing—the dwarf knows where. We'll let Iorveth know."

When they left Zoltan turned to Geralt. He looked serious. "I know what those elven pricks are planning! That clearing is a monster's lair. Huge whoreson with a shell on its back."

"An arachas in these parts?" asked Geralt. They started jogging again, Zoltan in the lead. "I thought that was impossible."

"I don't know the shit's name, but it's terrifying. They've sent us into a trap."

"Maybe not," Rusa chimed in, regretting throwing away the jacket. "We've news of Iorveth's second-in-command. I told him I'd find out what happened. He's waiting for us."

Zoltan stopped suddenly. "Excuse you?"

Rusa blinked. "I've…we've…"

"You _told_ him?" he asked incredulously. "What, the two of you just met up for a nice chat?"

Rusa pressed her lips into a thin line. "You got me."

Zoltan's eyes flashed as he pointed a stubby finger. "You think this a fuckin' game, lass? Iorveth's a murderer. Yer could've been killed!"

"Iorveth cornered Rusa near the elven ruins," said Geralt. "He blames her for Ciaran aep Easnillen's disappearance. We've information proving otherwise. The kingslayer's responsible."

"Thanks for caring, though," Rusa teased, however the look she gave was sincere.

Zoltan mumbled something under his breath and turned his back on her. "Come on," he said irritably. They continued climbing up a steep hill and soon arrived at the edge of the clearing.

Zoltan pointed ahead. "That creature prowls down there."

"Right where we're supposed to meet Iorveth," said Geralt.

"Exactly. Any ideas?"

The witcher shrugged. "I last fought an arachas sometime ago."

"I never had the swiving pleasure," Zoltan muttered. "Not that I mind."

Geralt glanced at Rusa. "Get ready. Zoltan, you wait here."

The dwarf inhaled sharply and flared his nostrils. "What are you…? Think me a limp prick?" He pushed past Geralt and jumped into the clearing. Rusa readied herself.

A strange mist emanated from the corner and the arachas appeared as if hidden beneath a veil. Rusa swallowed. The greater rotfiend was actually bearable compared to this hideous thing. The body of a giant spider with a spiked shell resting on its back… She notched an arrow and aimed for the head. She swore under her breath when it bounced off its skull. Armoured skin. Geralt launched himself at the arachas, Zoltan close behind. The monster scuttled back and forth snapping its jaws furiously. Geralt stabbed it underneath the shell and it screamed, spraying green ooze from the mouth. _The neck, aim for underneath the neck._ Rusa released another arrow. The arachas let out a piercing howl, louder than before. It lashed out at Zoltan, knocking him sideways. The dwarf stumbled over a rock and kicked the creature in the head as it bore down on him. Geralt took advantage and sank his blade beside Rusa's arrow. The arachas jumped back, flailing its two front legs for protection. The creature scuttled backward and swiped at Geralt to keep him at bay. Rusa lowered her bow. The monster was retreating. It struggled to keep its back legs from collapsing. She couldn't stop from calling out.

"It's dying Geralt, just leave it!"

The witcher glanced up, momentarily distracted. Zoltan grabbed his sword. "I'll fuckin' do it!" The dwarf stormed towards the creature and swung his blade down on its neck with such force that it was almost decapitated. He turned around, breathing heavily, the massive arachas collapsing behind him.

Sorry," he panted, leaning on his sword. "Sorry, Geralt. Took your kill."

Rusa sheathed her bow and jumped down. "Zoltan, I'm impressed!"

"Stay still," said Geralt and the other two followed his gaze. Archers were surrounding them, bows at the ready. Zoltan pushed Rusa behind him. A sweet gesture despite him barely reaching her chest. She felt Geralt stiffen when Iorveth jumped into the clearing.

He sauntered up to them, eye on Geralt. "A lovely show, Gwynbleidd. But tell me, was it worth it? An uneven fight and certain death await you anyway."

"We've news of Ciaran," Rusa blurted out. She stepped forward and sidestepped Geralt's arm.

"The little dog," sneered Iorveth. His voice dripped with disdain. "You've a talent for surviving, I see."

"Two Scoia'tael ambushes in one week, to be precise," she bit back, and flinched when the elf raised his hand.

Iorveth smiled inwardly and adjusted his glove. "A vatt'ghern, Roche's dog, and a dwarven traitor spitting on the honour of his folk. A strange group, indeed."

"You know what I spit on, you divot!" snapped Zoltan. "On you bloody squirts, riff-raff killing innocent men."

The elf chuckled. "Innocent men? So agitated when you shout that it's even funny."

"Letho betrayed you," said Geralt. "He wanted to make a deal with your comrade, Ciaran."

Iorveth's jaw tightened. "You should invent better lies, Gwynbleidd."

"He's on the barge," Rusa insisted. His eye shot to her and she lowered her voice. "Wounded, but alive."

"He turned Letho down, and his unit paid the ultimate price," continued Geralt.

Iorveth's eye remained fixed on the woman in front of him. "If you speak the truth, Letho will die." He turned on Geralt. "But words alone are not enough." At this, the archers lowered their bows.

Rusa stared at him in disbelief. "You still trust this assassin? He wants you dead!"

"Are you suggesting I trust _you_ , Rusa Elyot? You may be lying."

"If we're lying, then so did Ciaran!" she yelled. Her voice reverberated around the clearing.

Iorveth regarded her as one would a petulant child. He folded his arms. "We'll investigate it for his sake. We shall see how Letho reacts to your sensational news."

"Where is he?" asked Geralt.

The elf turned his back on them and paced a few steps, deep in thought. Something shifted in his demeanor. "The ruins of Caelmewedd," he said, almost reluctantly. "For some reason he likes the place. My unit will cover us. Ready?" Iorveth peered down at Zoltan. "I suggest you leave now, dwarf." He gestured for Geralt and Rusa to follow.

Zoltan grabbed Rusa's wrist. "Careful, lass." She gave him a small smile and climbed out of the clearing.

The walk to the elven ruins was uncomfortable, to say the least. Iorveth strode ahead of them in quiet determination, Geralt close behind. Rusa lingered at the back wondering what the other two were planning. She certainly didn't have a plan. Were they to simply approach Letho and ask him outright? As if privy to her thoughts, the elf came to a halt.

"We need a ruse," he said calmly. "Tell Letho you've captured me and want to hand me over to him."

Geralt nodded. "And you?"

"I'll be unarmed, hands bound. If you're not lying, his reaction will confirm it. I don't trust you, of course. My warriors will cover us. If you try anything stupid…" Iorveth looked pointedly at Rusa.

"I get it," she mumbled.

Iorveth smirked. "I don't think so. Do anything stupid and they'll tie you down on an anthill, face coated in honey." He glanced at Geralt. "You'll scream so loud even the storm riders will hear you."

"Are you always so grandiose?" asked Geralt. "We could just tell Letho to own up."

Iorveth ignored him and turned his eye on Rusa. "Ayd f'haeil moen Hirjeth taenverde." She tilted her head with a questioning look. His lip curled in disgust at her silence.

"Conquer with courage rather than strength," said Geralt, distracting him.

Iorveth drew back and gave a round of applause. "Exactly," he said, eye fixed on the woman in front of him. "Let's go."

He brought his hands behind his back and gestured for Geralt to lead him from behind. When they reached the top of the hill, Rusa inhaled sharply. Letho seemed even larger than before. Compared to Geralt…compared to all of them, he was a giant, a great hulking man who didn't appear at all agile. He sat on the lovers' monument with a thoughtful expression. She got a good look at his face. A deep, v-shaped scar travelled over the top of his skull, his sunken eyes hooded further by a heavy brow. He looked up as Geralt threw Iorveth to the ground. Honey-coloured eyes contrasted violently with his thuggish appearance.

"Geralt of Rivia," he said quietly. Rusa raised her eyebrows at the sound. His accent…she hadn't heard anything like it. Despite its softness it rumbled through the ruins, low and intimidating. "What's the meaning of this? Ah." Rusa shifted under his gaze. "You. I never thanked you."

"What?" she asked, unable to hide her confusion.

"We're here to negotiate," interrupted Geralt. Iorveth played his role and struggled to his feet.

"Ah! Iorveth, the woodland fox, caught at last," said Letho in a conversational tone. He looked at Geralt. He spoke sincerely, voice tinged with approval. "I underestimated you."

The witcher ignored the praise. "Who are you?"

"You really don't remember?"

"I'm sick of that question." It was the first time Rusa had heard Geralt frustrated.

"So it's true," Letho mused. "And here I thought you'd ruin it all. I am Letho of Gulet. I'm a kingslayer."

"Jokes over, unbind me!" yelled Iorveth, still playing the role but now definitely agitated. Letho barely acknowledged him. Clearly, his alliance with the elf was finished. Iorveth's doubts vanished. The kingslayer was a traitor to the Scoia'tael.

Geralt raised his hand. "Tell me who you're working for, and the elf is yours."

"We work for ourselves," replied the giant. The smoothness of his voice made Rusa uncomfortable. The man was unreadable, unpredictable… Different from Roche, whose temper always managed to get the better of him. Different, too, from the elf standing to her left with his jaw set and his hands twitching in anticipation. Letho was different. Foreign. Disorienting.

"We?" asked Geralt.

Letho eyed him carefully and lowered his voice. "The kingslayers."

"Demavend, Foltest… Who else?"

"Who the hell are you?" Rusa demanded. Iorveth's agitation was starting to rub off on her. This had gone on long enough.

Letho gave her an amused look. "A simple monk."

Rusa gritted her teeth to keep from shouting out. He was taunting her. She was the one who'd brought the children to the solar. She led Foltest right to him. That's what he meant before about thanking her. That's why he… She glared up at him, enraged. Foltest's death, the children, the Baroness. _It wasn't her fault._ She was following orders. But she led them to him, practically handed over the children to a murderer. But he'd been waiting there in advance. He knew they'd reach the solar. How…?

Letho's voice slipped into her thoughts. "Cat got your tongue, little one?" He smiled at the look on her face. Mind racing, eyes darting around furiously. He focused back on Geralt. "We've met. I'll never forget it. You saved my life, White Wolf. We fought side by side, now we'll cross blades. This wouldn't be necessary if I'd killed Iorveth first."

"Serrit and Auckes will drown in their own blood," Iorveth spat.

"Oh, I don't think so," he drawled. "My men will finish their task long before the Scoia'tael in the Pontar Valley realise you're dead."

Geralt frowned. "Serrit and Auckes—who are they?"

"Kingslayers the Scoia'tael are assisting in the Pontar Valley, in Upper Aedirn," said Iorveth, barely able to restrain his anger. The conversation was coming to a close.

"This doesn't have to end in blood," offered Geralt. Rusa glared at him. This wouldn't end peacefully; surely the witcher knew that. "Tell me everything."

"Enough of this farce!" snarled Iorveth. "Vedrai! Enn'le!"

Right on cue, several Scoia'tael ran out of the bushes, bows and swords at the ready. Letho drew his blade.

"What game are you playing?"

Geralt unsheathed his sword and the two of them squared off. "One that you just lost."

Rusa heard it again. The familiar click of a crossbow. She spun around and watched a Scoia'tael collapse with a bolt through the eye. Blue Stripes. The sound of a battle cry and they charged out the bushes, Roche jumping into the fray carelessly, hacking down several elves in the process. Several of Loredo's men tagged behind. Roche swung around and caught Rusa's eye. Despite the chaos—the noise, the ringing of metal, the slicing of flesh—she acknowledged the moment with a certain regret. Here, now, Roche would find out where her allegiance lied.

She drew her bow and gripped it tightly, knuckles turning white. She'd find out herself. The Blue Stripes or the Scoia'tael. Roche or Iorveth. She'd been attacked by the Scoia'tael twice but only because she'd accompanied Roche. Ciaran let her live. Iorveth spared her life, albeit reluctantly. Roche threatened to slit her throat. But he didn't. She remembered their conversation in the bedroom. Underneath the volatile exterior, Vernon Roche had the ability to be a good person. Iorveth, too, if what he told her of his goals was true. Someone in the east, a better future for all races. Is that the goal of a notorious criminal? She thought of her mother, knowing which side she'd choose.

But Roche wanted to find the children. Anaïs and Boussy—they were her goal. Rusa glanced over at Iorveth, aware of Roche's eyes still on her. The elf held out his hand.

"Give me my sword."

Geralt hesitated, looking between Iorveth and Roche. _He's in the same position_ , thought Rusa. In the corner of her eye she saw one of Loredo's men reposition his crossbow. Heard the notching of a bolt. Geralt wavered. Rusa panicked. She looked at Roche. He shook his head slowly. A warning. The marksman took aim.

"Geralt, give him the sword!"

Roche rushed forward and shoved her to the ground. He swung his sword at Iorveth and their blades collided, the sound of clashing metal reverberating through the ruins. Rusa scrambled to her feet and saw Geralt and Letho tumble into the baths below.

Ves was on the other side of clearing battling against two Scoia'tael. Distracted with one, she turned her back on the other. He raised his sword, overcome with a savagery peculiar to the Scoia'tael. Rusa had seen it in Brenna. She raised her bow and shot an arrow into his chest. Ves turned in surprise as the elf collapsed at her feet. She glanced at Rusa briefly before falling back with the rest of the men. The number of Scoia'tael had doubled. The Blue Stripes were outnumbered. Roche was busy fighting off Iorveth. She had to tell him.

"We need to ge—"

She stumbled back from the force. Blinking slowly, she stared at Roche in a daze. He'd heard the click. Heard what she'd heard too late. He pushed Iorveth away and shouted in her direction. Rusa frowned and tilted her head. She didn't understand. Her breathing turned shallow and rapid. _I don't understand!_ She scanned the area in desperation and spotted the marksman. The same oaf who'd targeted Iorveth. She glanced at her left breast, blood seeping through her shirt and coating the bolt in a crimson ooze. She heard Iorveth's voice in the distance. Incoherent and hazy. Roche's voice, too, although this she heard loud and clear. _Retreat!_ Rusa shook her head in an attempt to clear her vision. She wrapped her fingers around the bolt and gritted her teeth. Slick with blood, she struggled to keep hold. It moved barely an inch. With shaky hands she gripped the bolt tighter. She focused on Roche gathering his men and hauling a wounded soldier over his shoulders. He reeled around and caught her eye. Rusa held his gaze under heavy lids. She wanted him to watch. Wanted him to see what he'd done to her. She pulled slowly at first and bit down on her tongue until she tasted the bitterness. When Roche made to move towards her she wrenched the bolt out with a guttural scream. Only then did she break eye contact, balling a fist to her chest and collapsing onto the lovers' monument like some sort of grotesque parody.

* * *

A/N: 26/10/2015: The next chapter is the final to Part One but before posting, I'm curious as to your thoughts. Which way do you think Rusa will go? And Geralt?


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Hi guys, here's the final chapter of Part One. Flotsam gets quite claustrophobic, doesn't it? Thanks so much for the reviews/follows/faves - it's awesome to be with fellow Witcher 2 fans :)

Disclaimer: No ownership over here, y'all.

* * *

In the silence, Rusa was able to focus on her breathing. In the silence… where was everyone? The stone was warm against her body. She let her head fall back and stared up at the lovers. Still in the ruins. How long had she been unconscious? She unfurled her fist and chanced a look at the wound. Messy, bleeding steadily. She needed to get back to Flotsam. She needed…

"Don't touch it."

Iorveth stepped through the bushes and knelt down next to her. Rusa stared up at him in disbelief.

"What's going on? Where's—"

"Don't speak," he ordered and tore the shirt off her shoulder. Iorveth felt around the top of her breast and removed a blueish pulp from his mouth, rolling it between two fingers. He glanced at her briefly. Rusa's eyes widened. She swore loudly as he pressed it into the wound. He kept the pressure for a few moments and she dug her nails into the ground, hissing through her teeth. He let go, catching her head as it flopped forward.

"You've my thanks," she mumbled, tentatively brushing her fingers against her breast. The bleeding had slowed.

"As you do mine," he replied, removing a red piece of cloth from his belt. He tilted Rusa's head to the side and fastened it around her neck and under the shoulder, tugging the shirt up with an efficiency derived from decades of dressing wounds. "We need to leave. Where's Geralt?"

Rusa frowned. Geralt… Everything was hazy. "He and Letho," she spoke slowly, "they fell through the ruins."

Iorveth jumped up and peered into the hole. He held out a hand. "Cáemm."

She reached out with her right arm and stifled a groan as the elf helped her up. Overcome with nausea she pushed him away and bent over, breathing heavily. Iorveth waited patiently.

Rusa looked up at him, panting. "Sorry…I just…" Her stomach lurched violently and she bit back the urge to vomit. The burning sensation around the wound was excruciating. Whatever plant was lodged in there was working. She wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. "Okay," she breathed and straightened up, pinching the bridge of her nose. A flicker of amusement crossed Iorveth's face. She brushed off her breeches. "Let's go."

They made their way to the hole Roche had kicked in and climbed down to the baths. Rusa's throat tightened when she thought of the Blue Stripes. And Roche. Nowhere to be seen. _That_ _fucking marksman_ whose name she didn't know, didn't care to know. She scanned the baths as Iorveth strode through an archway into another room. Geralt was struggling to his feet. Letho was nowhere in sight.

Rusa ran towards him, ignoring the pain shooting through her chest. "Geralt! What happened? Are you alright?"

He nodded and sheathed his sword. "Where's Roche?"

She bit her lip as Iorveth came up beside her. "We killed a few of his men," he said. "The rest ran. Is Letho dead?"

"On his way to Flotsam," said Geralt.

"How do you know?" asked Rusa.

"He wants to find Triss."

Her chest tightened. _Triss_ … "What for?"

"Kill him," Iorveth cut in, jaw set. "Before he contacts the others."

A strange moment passed between the elf and the witcher. They understood each other, knew what the other was thinking. Geralt shook his head. "You shouldn't have trusted a dh'oine."

The elf looked at Rusa pointedly. She pursed her lips impatiently. "We need to find Triss. Let's go."

"We can't go there," said Iorveth softly, throwing Rusa off guard with his reservation. "The garrison…"

Geralt pointed an accusing finger. "Of course. I forgot what kind of warriors you are," he said scathingly. Rusa was taken aback by the sudden change in atmosphere. Iorveth glared at Geralt with a taut expression. Then he simply shrugged.

"Maethe taerde, Gwynbleidd. Good luck." He nodded at Rusa and left without another word.

"You're just leaving?" she yelled, as he disappeared into the other room. She turned to Geralt, stunned. "Why does Letho want Triss?"

They climbed out of the ruins and ran back to Flotsam, Rusa lagging behind and wheezing. She clutched a hand to her chest. The cloth was still secure and the burning sensation had eased somewhat. She groaned inwardly when she remembered Iorveth touching her breast. Neither had cared, her in a daze and him working efficiently, but the thought made her flush with embarrassment. She focused on Triss. Geralt said Letho needed her in order to teleport to Aedirn. They were running out of time.

The witcher waited for her at the gates and they headed into the market square. Rusa frowned at all the noise. It was different to Flotsam's usual racket. Geralt quickened his pace. People dashed around the square frantically, screaming and shouting, wielding clubs and any weapon they could get their hands on. Rusa stopped in her tracks. The square ran red with the blood of nonhumans. Men and women huddled over dwarves and elves, beating them to death. Blood splattered across their faces as they pummelled limp bodies, long dead, faces ground into the dirt. It was a massacre.

She rushed over to a group of women and tackled one to the floor. Her shoulder jarred and she clenched her jaw to keep from crying out. The woman squirmed under Rusa's weight, screaming as she writhed around on the bloodied cobblestones. She went to grab her club and, without thinking, Rusa gripped her by the collar and rammed her head into the woman's face. A boot collided with her stomach and Rusa keeled over. A man leered down at her and hammered his club into her side. She curled herself into a ball as he raised his weapon for a second round. Staring out across the cobbles she saw two bodies lying a puddle of blood. One had an arm over the other protectively. The other… familiar blonde curls framing her battered face.

The man brought down his club and Rusa braced herself for the impact. When nothing came she looked up frantically. Geralt hauled her to her feet.

"Come on!"

He pulled her towards the inn. She clawed at his arm in an attempt to break free. Geralt circled her waist and practically dragged her away. She stared helplessly at the bodies of Ylvan and Beryl. The little human had protected the elf with her life.

* * *

They found Dandelion shielding two elves and fending off the accusations of two men. The humans turned on Geralt, one yelling about the elves causing the death of his son. Rusa gritted her teeth. _Humans_. _Hateful, naive humans!_ She blinked suddenly. She was human. Geralt's eyes glowed as he performed an axii charm, which caused the men to leave the elves unharmed. The latter expressed their thanks to the witcher and wasted no time in escaping.

"Who opened the gates of hell?" Geralt asked Dandelion. The bard was staring at Rusa wide-eyed.

"You look…"

"Disgusting, I know," she said, looking down. She was covered in blood.

"I was going to say exhausted," Dandelion replied smoothly. Despite the chaos, Rusa laughed. _Exhausted_. She couldn't deny that she was. The bard continued, "I don't have any proof, but my coins on Loredo. Rulers are always looking for a way to cover their mistakes and failures. And the mob always loves a circus, whether merry or bloody." He lowered his voice, a serious look on his face. "This town will never be the same. A time of disdain has come."

Rusa went behind the bar and found a bucket of water in the corner. She grabbed a cloth and wiped herself off. Dandelion stared over the bar as she washed her legs.

Geralt snapped his fingers. "How did the rioting start?"

"They say it's revenge for those soldiers who died following Roche," he said, returning his gaze to Geralt reluctantly. Rusa remained oblivious and continued scrubbing off the blood with a look of disgust. "But they were just thugs on Loredo's pay," the bard added. "No one misses them."

"Why aren't the guards doing anything?"

"Why would they? The Squirrels slaughtered their cronies and Loredo hasn't given them any orders."

Rusa perked up at that piece of information. Her blood boiled. The commandant sat peacefully in his tower while nonhumans died in his streets. Roche was right. Traitor to Temeria or not, Loredo needed to die. She threw the bloodied cloth into the bucket and rested her head against the bar.

Geralt cut to the chase. "We need to find Triss."

Dandelion looked thoughtful. "Last I saw her, she was on her way to meet Sile in her rented quarters at the inn. I told Triss about the megascope Zoltan's been building."

Rusa raised her head wearily. The heat of the inn was making her sleepy. "Let's go, then," she said and opened the door. The screams from outside shattered the quiet.

"I was lucky enough to get the key to Sile's nest." Dandelion looked sheepish as he walked out. "Incidentally, for a big woman, the innkeeper's wife is surprisingly nimble…"

Rusa nodded her head absently. A thought occurred to her as they made their way to Sile's room. The chaos outside—the massacre—where were the Blue Stripes? A nonhuman massacre… the thought of Roche being involved sickened her. She hoped he was busy with Loredo.

They entered Sile's room. Empty, apart from a dead guard in the corner. The megascope stood in the corner surrounded by chalk markings on the floor.

"Not good…" mumbled Dandelion.

"Don't just stand there," said Geralt, clearly agitated. "We need to look for clues."

The three of them searched around the room and Rusa noticed a peephole close to the megascope.

"Here, Geralt!"

The witcher peered through the hole. "Someone might have been spying…"

"The brothel's behind that wall," chimed Dandelion. "Maybe the Madame saw what happened."

Geralt barged into the room next door. Margot stood protectively over the body of a young elven woman.

"What happened here?" asked Rusa.

The Madame turned, breasts heaving, her rouged face stained with tears. "They murdered her. Derae. Yesterday they loved her, drank wine with her, told her she's pretty… Today, five of them came, drunk on blood, screaming filth." Rusa craned her neck to look at the girl. She _was_ beautiful.

"We need to know what happened in the next room. We noticed a peephole…" Geralt trailed off.

"Mhm. Sile normally casts spells that blocked both sight and sound, but there was nothing like that this time." Margot looked back at Derae with a pained expression. "We started peeping—me first. I saw that redhead, Triss Merigold, and Cedric, our drunkard ex-Squirrel."

Rusa's eyes snapped to the peephole nervously. "Cedric?"

"He accompanied her," Margot replied with a nod. "The redhead approached the magic mirror and said, 'Let's see who our ice-queen's been talking to recently.' She waved her hands around and shouted an incantation. A woman appeared in the mirror—a woman named Philippa."

Geralt glanced at Dandelion. "Who's Philippa?"

"Philippa Eilhart—sorceress counsellor to King Radovid of Redania. A grand mistress of the world's most fetid cuisine—politics."

Rusa rolled her eyes at the bard's poetics and waved a dismissive hand. "What did they say to each other?"

Margot took a breath. "Something about a beautiful woman in Aedirn, an uprising and a fight for freedom. She's achieved the impossible, Philippa said. Humans, nonhuman, nobles, burghers, and peasants marching side by side towards a new beginning…"

"The woman Iorveth spoke of," Rusa said hurriedly.

Geralt nodded, eyes fixed on the Madame. "What happened to Triss?"

Margot gave a frustrated sigh. She didn't know. The murderers interrupted, kicked her, stabbed Derae… "I heard the sorceress screaming, though. After the murderers left I peered outside. Thought I saw Cedric sneaking through the alleys, towards the forest. He was staggering."

Rusa felt her chest constrict. She pictured Cedric hurt and stumbling around the forest. Her eyes started stinging. If they hurried they could still get to him.

"Wait!" Margot handed Rusa a letter as they stepped out to the balcony. "Give this to Iorveth."

Rusa frowned. She couldn't hide her surprise. "A letter?"

The Madame gave her a meaningful look. "The names of Derae's killers. He'll understand." Rusa stuffed the letter into her back pocket. Of course, _she_ had to be the bearer of bad news.

Dandelion stayed behind as they searched for Cedric. The witcher pointed out the trail of blood and Rusa's heart seized momentarily. The elf was badly wounded. The glare from the setting sun made it difficult for her to follow the trail so she relied on Geralt's unfailing vision and footprints. Each time they passed another puddle of blood she swore under her breath. Several dead ends later and Geralt spotted him slumped against a tree.

"Cedric!" Rusa darted forward. He was bleeding profusely. She removed his hands from the wound and he stared at her, eyelids heavy.

"Caedmill, Rusa Elyot," he slurred, though this time not from the liquor.

Rusa pressed her hand onto the wound and scanned his face anxiously. "Just tell me what to get." She berated herself for not having asked Iorveth the name of plant he used. She glanced over her shoulder. "Geralt, hurry!"

Cedric greeted the witcher and removed Rusa's hand gently. "I no longer feel the pain… Always wanted to die among trees…"

"Stop it," she ordered, slapping his hand away. "Don't talk like that."

Geralt dropped down next to them. "Cedric, what happened?"

The elf shifted on his elbow and grimaced. "Triss asked me for help. I killed the dh'oine guarding the door, and we broke in." His eyes darted around helplessly. "Again, I killed a dh'oine…"

"You were helping Triss," Rusa insisted. "What happened to her?"

"A witcher came in. Attacked us." Cedric searched Geralt's face, angry and ashamed. "I tried to protect Triss… He was too fast… too fast for me. He hit Triss before she could cast a spell. He knew how to fight a sorceress… Then he ordered her to activate the megascope… He needed to get to Aedirn… Near the dwarven town of Vergen." He struggled for breath and coughed, several drops of blood spraying onto his shirt. Rusa wiped the corner of his mouth. "Triss said it was madness, that she didn't know the coordinates. He threatened her before I passed out. When I woke, they were gone."

Cedric rested his head against the tree and again lifted Rusa's hands away gently. "I knew I was dying. The forest called for me."

Rusa struggled to keep her voice level. "Why, Cedric! Why did you get involved?"

The elf gave her a meaningful look. "Why did you? Sometimes we must…"

"Have I told you about my visions?" he continued. "That's why I drink. It helps. I'm safe in a mist of vodka… see nothing… feel nothing…" Geralt told him to calm down but Cedric pushed on, his voice straining. "Now I see clearly. You need to regain your memory… Only then will you understand who's killing crowned dh'oine…and why."

Rusa glanced at Geralt. "How can I get it back?" he asked.

"In Aedirn… In a place tainted with dark magic…" Cedric let out a shaky breath. "Where ghosts of the fallen will fight a great battle. Save their souls and your memory will return."

"You need to rest. We can carry you back," Rusa said, looking up at Geralt for confirmation. His eyes flickered over Cedric and he looked away. She wanted to scream at him. She lifted her head and jutted out her chin in determination. "We'll get you back to Lobinden."

Cedric stared up her, his vision fading. "Your path is hidden from me, Rusa Elyot." Tears welled up as she heard the resignation in his voice. He chuckled softly. "Baeg wedd, why do you cry? This is not the end."

Rusa squeezed his hand. "Stop it!"

His tired eyes scanned the forest. Rusa searched his face frantically. Cedric looked up at Geralt who placed a hand on his shoulder. "What's happening...? The forest… I feel a presence…"

Rusa tore her eyes away and gazed into the clearing. A doe wandered towards them slowly, elegantly. She lowered her head, scuffing the ground with a delicate hoof. As if on call, several other forest animals made their way out from the bushes. They stared at the elf, mourning the loss of a kindred spirit.

"They've come to bid you farewell," Geralt said softly.

Cedric turned to the clearing with a small smile. "My forest…" He blinked at Geralt. "Va fail, Gwynbleidd. Farewell." He closed his eyes. Rusa cried out. She slipped her hand from his but not before she felt the small squeeze of her palm.

* * *

When they reached the town gate Rusa had to stop, unable to hold back the tears. The witcher surprised her when he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. She didn't push him away. She needed the contact. Cedric's lifeless body, Beryl and Ylvan, the elven girl with Margot, all the nonhumans rotting in Flotsam's streets… So much death. She took a deep breath and gave Geralt a nod.

"Here you are!" Dandelion's voice rang out through the forest. Zoltan looked at Rusa suspiciously.

"What's wrong, lass?"

"It's fine," she said. "The kingslayer teleported to Aedirn."

Dandelion gasped. "What? How?!"

"He forced Triss to cast the spell," Geralt mumbled. The witcher wouldn't show it but he was worried. Zoltan swore under his breath.

Dandelion hesitated, picking up on Geralt's concern. He changed the subject. "Roche sent me to find you—we're setting off. He's learned something new."

"The Scoia'tael are also up to something big," grumbled Zoltan.

Rusa couldn't help herself. She needed to know what Roche was up to. "Did Roche mention something to you about the commandant, Dandelion?"

The bard nodded enthusiastically. "He went off on Loredo. It must be something important."

"He won't leave Flotsam until Loredo's dead," she muttered to no one in particular.

"And the Scoia'tael?" resumed Geralt.

"They want to storm the barge and they need your help!"

Rusa glanced at the dwarf, a small smile playing on her lips. "When did you join the Scoia'tael, Zoltan?" He puffed out his chest, scoffing and carrying on. On seeing the smile on her face, the dwarf quietened down and mumbled into his beard.

"Don't test me, lassie," he snapped. "It's not like that. They're taking the prisoners to Drakenborg. A special prison for nonhumans. Bloody monument to human hatred!"

Geralt turned to Rusa with a shrug. "Maybe Roche or the Scoia'tael can finally be useful…"

"I'll see what Roche wants," she offered and, receiving a word of warning from Zoltan, made for the gate closer to the headquarters. She wanted to avoid the market square at all costs. She glanced over at Lobinden, the observation deck bereft of Cedric's silhouette.

She lingered on the bottom step then barged into the headquarters. When Roche saw her he unleashed a torrent of spectacular abuse.

"Where the fuck have you been! What the _fuck_ were you doing with the Scoia'tael?" He slammed her against the door and she cried sharply, clutching her chest. He backed off ever so slightly. "You gave Iorveth a sword!"

Rusa looked past him to Ves who was watching the encounter uncomfortably. Roche dug his fingers into her chin.

"Answer me."

She considered staying silent to provoke him further. When she spoke her voice was muffled, his fingers squeezing the joints in her jaw. "You shot me," she said simply. "You shot me and then left me to rot."

Roche jabbed his finger into the bandage. "Clearly _someone_ came to your aid. Why am I not surprised?"

"If Iorveth hadn't helped me I'd have bled out in those damn ruins!" she yelled back, shoving him with her good arm. Roche stood firm—didn't even budge—but he allowed her some space. Rusa calmed down. "Iorveth knows a lot about the kingslayers, Roche, and they no longer see eye to eye…"

He stared at her in disbelief. "Have you gone completely mad?"

"He could lead us to him," she argued.

"The only journey I'll make with Iorveth in tow is to the scaffold in Vizima's marketplace."

Rusa rolled her eyes and pressed on. "The kingslayer fled to Vergen in Aedirn. He forced Triss to teleport them both."

Roche slammed his fist on the desk. "Damn, he's made a mockery of us! If that's how he wants to play, I'll make him regret it." Rusa took a seat opposite him. He glanced at her and considered ordering her to stand up then thought better of it. She had information.

"I'm surprised you're not out enjoying the massacre," she added serenely. "How did the riots start?"

Roche leaned on the desk, towering over her. Rusa regretted sitting down. "When my scouts reported you and Geralt had met with Iorveth, I ordered Loredo to provide me with backup. The incompetent oafs were supposed to wait for a signal, but the crossbowmen were twitchy. The Scoia'tael gave us hell. Many of my men are wounded, but Loredo's people… When news travelled of their deaths, two of the soldiers' fathers took it out on an elven girl. " He paused. "You can imagine what happened next."

Rusa nodded, her mind flashing back to Derae's body in the brothel. She glanced down at her wound absently.

"Loredo's man shot you," Roche added. "Not one of mine. When we returned you were already gone."

Rusa raised an eyebrow. "We?"

"Ves and myself."

She folded her arms and shot him a cynical look. Sometimes, he actually impressed her. A master manipulator, the consummate professional...

"Ah, but this changes nothing," he mused. "You aided Iorveth, turned against me, yet you have the gall to sit there, blaming me for injuries you caused yourself."

Almost shaking with the effort of restraining her temper, Rusa spoke slowly, softly, only just managing to get the words past her teeth. "Turned…? Are you suggesting I was once on your side?"

Something shifted in Roche's demeanor. She'd thrown him off guard again. A rare occasion, to be certain, but she'd done it. He collapsed into his chair and regarded her coolly. Two images came to mind. The first involved her writhing around on the floor with his hands around her neck. He smiled at that. The second was using her as bait to draw out Loredo. The smile faltered. He was about to give her an ultimatum when Geralt stepped in.

"About bloody time," muttered Roche.

Rusa felt significantly safer with Geralt in the room. He strolled up to the desk and took a seat. "I heard you have news for me."

Despite his annoyance, Roche wasted no time. "Loredo has a deal with Kaedwen. The merchant living in his house is Henselt's agent. For a pouch of gold the good commandant promised to support Kaedweni troops in the event of a conflict…"

"So what now?"

"I want that spy, to squeeze him for information," Roche stressed. "And I've sentenced Commandant Loredo to death."

"Roche, we have to sail," said Geralt, unable to conceal his agitation. "We have to get to Aedirn."

"I'm not leaving until I deal with Loredo," he replied stubbornly. "The spy may know something about the kingslayers. I wouldn't be surprised if Henselt of Kaedwen was behind all this."

Geralt shot a sidelong glance at Rusa. Its secrecy made Roche's blood boil. The witcher considered his options. He headed for the door. "I'll be back later."

"Dammit witcher, it's not a date. You can't keep putting it off!"

A few moments passed before Geralt's shoulders sagged. Rusa's stomach sank. "Alright." He stared at Roche impassively. "Let's deal with this spy."

Relief flashed across Roche's face before he looked at the others with a stern expression. The rest of the men gathered around the desk. Rusa felt it again; that uncomfortable feeling of being _too involved._

Roche began the briefing. "Listen very carefully—I'm not repeating this. We have two targets. The first is a Kaedweni spy—Arnolt Malliger. I want him alive. The other is Bernard Loredo, the trading post's commander and a traitor to Temeria. We don't let his kind live," he reiterated. "Arnolt almost never leaves the residence—so we need to strike there. To get inside, we'll use Ves's unusual talents, and Bernard's habits—"

"Stop calling him by his first name," Geralt complained. "It really rubs me the wrong way."

"Whatever you wish," Roche replied and shuffled around for another diagram.

"I'm sorry, Ves's unusual talents?"

He stared at Rusa impatiently. "I said I'm not repeating this."

She blinked and stole a glance at Ves. "Unusual talents?"

"Loredo's house," continued Roche, drawing everyone's attention to the diagram. "The first floor contains guest quarters. Geralt had the opportunity a few days ago to take a look. Regular patrols. Second floor… Loredo's bodyguards' quarters. They think they're the toughest warriors this side of the Yaruga, but really they're lame drowners dressed in colourful gambesons. Third floor, the lion's den. Here, Loredo stores plundered valuables." He gestured around him theatrically. "It's where he sleeps, shits, and wanks off while staring at the statuette of a she-elf."

Rusa laughed. It hung awkwardly in the silence and Roche gave her a warning look. "The imagery…" she trailed off, aware of everyone's eyes on her. The commander turned back to his papers, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Only the following are allowed to enter: Arnolt Malliger, Loredo's mother, his cousin and…whores."

Ves scoffed. "I'm not sure I still have that frock…"

"After making his round of the trading post, Loredo always orders two ladies. Ves will act as one of them. As for the other…" Roche locked eyes with Rusa and she choked back her disgust.

"No. Absolutely not."

His lips quirked. "I thought you wanted to scout the kitchen?"

"No. For all we know, Loredo's mother might be the local fist fighting champion."

"Will you two stop bickering?" Ves interjected. She looked at Roche seriously. "I'll go in alone."

Rusa groaned inwardly at what she was about to do. _This is it_ , she thought. _I've hit rock bottom._ "No, Ves, you don't know what Loredo might do. I'll go with you. I know you're more than capable but at least this way we can look out for each other."

"Unless you're busy knocking out the commandant's mother with a frypan," Geralt mumbled under his breath. Rusa turned to him in surprise. She'd never heard him make a joke before.

" _No_ ," said Ves with frustration. "You stay put."

"But—"

"No buts. Roche, tell her."

"Ves can hold her own," he said calmly. He wasn't going to admit he'd considered sending Rusa in. "The house is a bloody fortress, but Loredo had it enlarged. The witcher will enter through the extension. Ves will open a window for you. Zenin and Ryckard will cover you from vantage points. If things get hot, lure those whoresons near the windows. I'll be in the courtyard with the others, ready to enter in the extreme. I repeat, in the extreme." Roche looked over his men with a satisfied expression. They'd succeed. They always did.

As the others gathered their equipment—Ves dusting off her 'outfit' irritably—Rusa hurried upstairs and collapsed onto the bed. She needed to rest and collect her thoughts, even if only for a few moments. She shuffled around on the bed and felt the paper crumple in her back pocket. _Iorveth's letter._ She wondered what he and Geralt had spoken about. It surprised her that the witcher ended up back here. Worse still, he'd agreed to go along with Roche's plan. Had he chosen the Blue Stripes over the Scoia'tael? Had _she?_ She frowned at the familiar feeling of unease.

What of her feelings towards the Scoia'tael? She hated what they stood for—banditry and terrorist tactics. But the woman in the east. The saviour uniting all races under one banner. Iorveth's scoia'tael fought for her now. It was a worthy goal, one the Blue Stripes would never understand. Just as her thoughts drifted to Anaïs and Boussy, Roche barged into the room. He glanced at her briefly and began rummaging around in the corner. Rusa stared at his back, aware of the pain swelling in her chest. It wasn't the wound. He looked over his shoulder.

"How can you sleep at a time like this?"

"No time like the present."

He grunted in agreement and sat on the edge of the bed, studying her intently. She carried souvenirs from her time in Flotsam. A bruise here, a cut there, clothing shredded and filthy. She looked like a little savage with a messy braid swept across her face. Rusa dug her heel into his thigh.

"Staring is impolite."

Roche lowered his gaze to the floor, smiling inwardly. "I'm not one for courtly manners."

She snorted. "You don't say."

Silence fell between them—a relatively comfortable one, despite the situation. Rusa acknowledged something was about to change. Whatever her decision, _something_ wouldn't be the same between them. She studied his profile, rugged and battle-worn, scars scattered along his jaw line. And the black chaperon he never removed in public. Hiding something. Another scar, perhaps, deeper and more gruesome than the others. Like Iorveth, although his wasn't so easy to hide. They were too similar. Perhaps being enemies was a blessing in disguise. If they worked together, they'd be a formidable opponent. Rusa shifted uncomfortably. Racism. That's all that stood between them. Entrenched, poisonous, _mutual_ racism. But Iorveth was fighting for a place founded on acceptance. He understood that the fragile longevity of the elven race depended on mutual tolerance. He worked for the bigger picture, saw further than Roche, a patriot concerned purely with Temeria's plight.

She inhaled sharply when Roche lifted his gaze. His eyes rested on hers and she struggled not to look away.

"After we get the kingslayer, we'll find Foltest's children," he said softly. _We_. _We'll find… Together._ Her and Roche. In that moment, in spite of everything he put her through, Rusa realised how difficult their separation would be. "You have my word."

She nodded absently. She wanted to scream at him: _you're on the wrong side!_ Roche pressed on, struggling to voice his thoughts. "That's your goal. The children. You shouldn't have got caught up in all these schemes…"

Rusa's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Was he blaming himself? "I got myself involved, Roche, it wasn't anyone else's doing."

Amusement flashed in his eyes. "Did you think I was apologising?" His head tilted in disapproval. "You've only got yourself to blame."

She clenched her fists and cast her gaze to the floor. "I see."

She allowed him time to backtrack but instead he sat in silence, staring ahead aimlessly. She sighed and stood up, joints aching as she stretched out her spine. Roche watched her leave and raised a hand.

"Wait."

Face inches from the door, Rusa squeezed her eyes shut. His footsteps came closer. Heavy, slow, deliberate. She took a deep breath.

"You'll stay with me and the others in the courtyard tonight," he said, leaving little distance between them. Rusa heard the threat in his voice. A silent ultimatum. She bucked at his presumptuous authority.

"You're not my father, Roche," she replied scathingly. "You can't tell me what to do all the time."

He looked genuinely taken aback. Closing the distance ever so slightly he said, "I've no desire to be your father."

Rusa searched his eyes, his face. The man was impenetrable. She pressed her fingers to the door nervously, flinching slightly when Roche reached around for something in his pocket. He unfurled his fist. "Take this."

A delicate gold chain pooled in the palm of his hand. Rusa looked up at him, bewildered. "I've no need for fancy trinkets…" It sounded harsher than she intended. Roche made an impatient noise in the back of his throat and brought her hair to one side with a swift tug. She glared at him when he did it a second time, harder than before.

"It's not a trinket," he snapped, purposefully pinching her skin as he fixed it around her neck. It fell gently across the red cloth covering her wound. _Iorveth's handiwork._ Roche's temper flared. "Although, perhaps it is, compared to Cintran goods."

Rusa traced her finger over the intricate filigree. She smiled and knocked the wind out of his sails. "I only wore Cintran gems when my mother forced me," she teased and then fell serious. "Thank you. But I can't take it."

"You will."

She went to unclasp it and Roche grabbed her hands, digging his thumbs into the delicate skin under her wrists. Rusa struggled and he pinned her arms above her head. "Take the necklace!" he demanded.

Rusa hissed through her teeth. "I don't _want_ it!"

"Take the fucking necklace!"

She dug a knee into his groin but missed her target. Roche chuckled and hooked an arm under her leg. "So close."

In one swift move he hoisted her other leg around his waist and pushed her against the door. Rusa bit her lip as his body pressed into hers. She dug her fingers into his shoulders and locked her legs around him. Roche braced one hand against the door and secured the other underneath her. He looked up at her expectantly. Drawing in a quick breath, she held it, and fleetingly touched her lips to his. He let her kiss him lightly at first, delighting in the softness of her lips, her gentle touch. She kissed with a tenderness foreign to him and he fought the urge to throw her on the bed and show her what he was used to. But he felt the digging of her nails, the tightening of her legs at his side acting as confirmation; she was the little masochist he thought her to be.

Roche deepened the kiss and smiled when Rusa let out a small moan. Her eyes widened at the sound and she pushed him back violently, slapping him across the face—hard. His eyes darkened and he growled before crashing his lips onto hers. She kissed him back with equal force and gasped as he practically threw her onto the bed. She sat up immediately and pulled him down on top of her. Roche lifted her up so she was straddling him and leant back when she started tugging on the lace of his uniform. She fumbled with it for a moment before crying out in frustration and tearing off her own shirt. He smiled at her impatience. Cheeks flushed, lips swollen, hair tumbling over her wounded breast… He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so aroused. In that moment, he berated himself for not being able to treat her gently. She swatted his arm irritably for making her wait and his lips quirked. She didn't want gentle. He leaned into her mouth with a hunger that excited Rusa, and kneaded her breasts, squeezing the injured one softly. She whimpered and pushed herself into him further.

A knock on the door. "Ready when you are, commander!"

Roche paid it no heed, every ounce of his attention on the woman in front of him. Rusa broke the kiss and glanced at the door.

"Ignore him," he whispered urgently.

Another knock, louder this time. "Commander?"

" _What?!"_

Rusa flinched at the anger in his voice. She made to move but he tightened his grip on her thighs. She dropped her head on his shoulder, breathing heavily.

"We're ready to move sir," came the muffled voice.

Roche's fingers cut into her skin but she didn't seem to care. They sat there for a moment before he loosened his grip reluctantly. Rusa threw her shirt back on in a hurry and hissed when her bad shoulder got stuck in the sleeve. Roche helped her into it, his eyes never leaving hers.

"We have to go," she said, lifting herself off him and pacing towards the door. She swung it open, much to the surprise of the soldier on the other side. "We're coming." He gave a curt nod and looked over at Roche who was rummaging through his belongings.

Rusa swept downstairs and scanned the room for Geralt. She needed to talk to him. To ask him what his plan was. To tell him there was a _right_ side… He stood in the corner speaking with Silas. She marched over and pulled him to the side, glancing at the stairs nervously.

"Geralt, you don't need to do this. There's…" She hesitated, trying to verbalise her turbulent thoughts. "If you go with Roche, I can't follow you. I won't." Geralt opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by Roche's footsteps on the stairs. Rusa pleaded with the witcher.

"Iorveth's goal is a worthy one, Geralt. You of all people should understand!"

She looked at Roche frantically. He had his back to her whilst discussing something with Fenn. She gave Geralt a desperate look and then ran out of the headquarters. Once outside the gate, she caught her breath and glanced back at Flotsam with contempt. _To hell with this place!_

She sprinted for the ruins, assuming Iorveth and his Scoia'tael waited there. The decision was made. Her mind was racing, the feeling of Roche's body against hers burned into her skin. She couldn't follow him. She wouldn't. He would have found out she'd abandoned them by now. Imagining his reaction made Rusa wince. She'd betrayed him. But he was not to be trusted. Her head was pounding and she quickened her pace, branches scratching her face and arms. Anaïs and Boussy—she'd find them her own way. Roche was not to be trusted.

She ran with a desperation reminiscent of her time spent skirting the fields of Brenna, scouting her next target. Except this time she sought Iorveth out personally. To go with him. To travel to Aedirn with the Scoia'tael. She must be mad. But the mysterious woman in the east— _she_ was someone worth following, worth fighting for. The woman wished to see an end to places like Flotsam and, for this, she had Rusa's unwavering support. Her mind flashed to Beryl and Ylvan, their bodies lumped together in a final embrace. If there was to be a battle over this so-called free state, Rusa would defend it with her life.

She crashed through the bushes, sweating profusely. Zoltan stormed towards her as she stumbled into the clearing and laid a heavy hand on her back.

"By the grace of Mother Creatrix's tits! Where yer been, lass?"

Rusa doubled over and held up a hand. "No time to explain."

"With Roche," came Iorveth's sneering voice. He walked up to her casually and bent down to look at her. His eye bore into hers. "Am I right?" When she didn't reply he twisted his lips and muttered, "I'm right."

"And the vatt'ghern?" he continued, pushing Rusa's shoulder as he drew back. "Sided with the commander, as well?" Iorveth lowered his gaze, jaw set. "If so, he'll pay with his life."

Rusa took a deep breath and brushed Zoltan off. "Don't give up on him yet."

Iorveth barked an order at one of his men and turned on her with a small shrug. "It matters not." He leant against the lover's monument, eyes fixed on the woman in front of him. _The little dog_ _betrayed her master._ He'd have loved to see Roche's face. "Tell me, what provoked your decision? You stand here with me now. A little feral running through my forest blindly…"

Zoltan stiffened and opened his mouth to retort. Rusa laid a hand on his shoulder. "Roche and I don't share the same path," she said calmly despite her throat constricting. Her wound throbbed and she felt his hands around her breasts, kneading them with rough, calloused fingers. Her eyes stung.

"And you wish to share mine…" Iorveth drawled, drawing her out of her thoughts. He regarded her coolly. "You betrayed Roche easy enough. You shall betray me, also."

"I didn't _betray_ anyone!" she screamed, her grip on Zoltan's shoulder like a vice. The dwarf didn't seem to notice but she eased off slowly. "Betrayal implies I actually swore my allegiance in the first place. I haven't—to either of you." She covered her eye. "I guess you didn't _see_ that."

Iorveth's eye flared, enraged by her insolence. He strode towards her and raised his fist. She didn't flinch this time. It only angered him more.

"Geralt!" cried Zoltan, and the elf spun around in surprise. Taking advantage of the distraction, Rusa stepped away from him lightly. He snapped his eye to her and grabbed her wrist before she could get any further. She smiled at Geralt over his shoulder and Iorveth released her with a frustrated growl.

"Decided to join us, Gwynbleidd? It seems Roche is losing his touch."

Rusa fought the urge to smack the smug look off his face. Instead, she went to Geralt and searched his eyes for information. "What happened? Is Ves okay?"

"I believe so," he said softly.

"And Loredo?"

"Incapacitated last I saw him. It was chaos when I left. You were right about his mother, by the way."

Rusa bit back a laugh and stole a glance at Iorveth. She lowered her voice. The elf snorted at her attempts to be secretive. "And…"

"Roche went beserk," said Geralt, and addressed Iorveth. "Once they've dealt with the commandant, they're sailing to Henselt's camp—on the outskirts of Vergen."

"He wants to find out if Henselt's behind the slayings…" Rusa mumbled and glared pointedly at Iorveth.

"Enough of Roche," he snapped. "Upper Aedirn is our goal. The Pontar Valley is juicy piece of meat beset by hounds. We need to get there as soon as possible."

"The Scoia'tael bite hardest," said Geralt.

"It's our land! Our forefathers' land." Iorveth pointed an accusing finger at Rusa. " _Your_ forefathers' lands. I'm no bandit, Gwynbleidd—I lead a great army."

"It sounds like you want to establish an elven state."

The elf sneered at him. "There is already an elven state—Dol Blathanna."

"Francesca Findabair rules there," noted Rusa. Re-establishing Dol Blathanna as an elven state was a reward for the elves that sided with Nilfgaard during the war. It was a provision of the Cintran treaty. Findabair sacrificed the Scoia'tael so as to appease Nilfgaard and the Northern monarchs. Rusa understood Iorveth's contempt.

"Rules?" he spat. "She merely carries out Nilfgaardian orders. We want a truly free state where an elf could visit a human inn! A land where humans could enter the forest without fear!"

The vice in Rusa's chest suddenly subsided. She made the right choice.

"And you plan to be king?" asked Geralt. "King Iorveth I?"

Zoltan chuckled and Iorveth pressed his lips into a thin line. "I've already told you, I know the head the crown would fit. We merely have to place it there."

"Whose head is it, exactly?"

"One who believes in integrity, honesty and honour," replied Iorveth, his gaze resting on Rusa. "A person who won't sell out to Nilfgaard for a few florins. A woman named Saskia."

Geralt stared at him, completely nonchalant, and asked suddenly, "Is she your fiancée?"

Rusa's eyebrows shot up and she struggled to restrain her laughter. The tension hung awkwardly between them and she hid her reddening face from Iorveth's scrutinising glare. She felt Zoltan's shoulders shaking and bit down on her lip.

"Don't mock me, Gwynbleidd."

Geralt shrugged. "It sounds like she's more important to you. Not just a woman whose head would fit the crown."

"You'll understand once you meet her," Iorveth said firmly. Rusa uncovered her face and turned back to him, eyes on the verge of watering. An involuntary laugh escaped her throat and she pressed her lips together.

"You said you're going to Vergen," reminded Geralt. "Why go to a dwarven town?"

Iorveth and Zoltan exchanged looks. "Henselt and his army have pitched camp on the right riverbank. Saskia and a sorceress gather reinforcements to defend Aedirn."

"Philippa Eilhart," chimed Rusa, remembering their conversation with Margot. She threw a hand to her back pocket. She was yet to give Iorveth his letter.

"What does the leader of an army expect from me?" questioned Geralt.

"That you accompany me to Aedirn. Perhaps you'll find your sorceress there. You'll certainly find someone who will soon change the balance of power in the North."

Rusa cut in. "Aedirn must be two days travel on foot. You'll never make it in time."

Iorveth gave a curt nod. "I have a plan."

"What _plan_?"

"First you must agree to help us. I need your decision now." The elf folded his arms and shot Geralt a cool stare. "You helped me with Letho. That's the sole reason we're speaking. _You_ "—he glanced at Rusa—"aided me in the ruins. I returned the favour in kind. We may both be pursuing the same son of a bitch, Geralt, but I haven't forgotten the company you arrived in."

Rusa sneaked a glance at Geralt. He was frowning, deep in thought. She'd already made her decision. Iorveth knew this. Hence why his eye burned into Geralt's with a particular intensity.

"Count me in," he said. "We'll get Letho together."

Iorveth inhaled slowly and straightened. "Excellent, we've no time to lose. We need to capture the prison barge."

"You want to enter a town where they're massacring elves?!" Rusa spluttered. "You're not grandiose, you're mad!"

Iorveth almost smiled. "My mother claimed likewise. We'll not enter the town. We'll divide the unit. Take my best scout and attack from the harbour. I'll sail downriver with the others. Most of the guards should be at the trading post."

Rusa shook her head adamantly. "The harbour could still be dangerous…"

The elf gave a harsh, derisive laugh. "What did you expect? A Xin'trean tea party?"

"No…" she spoke through her teeth. "Don't you think we should trick them, as we did Letho?"

Iorveth considered this for a moment and looked at Geralt. "You and I can take out the guards on the prison barge. They'll be dead before they can reach their swords. Then we can signal the others." He glanced behind him as two scouts emerged from the bushes. "None will get away this time," he muttered under his breath.

One of the scouts whispered to Iorveth. He nodded slowly, looking Rusa up and down with an unreadable expression. His gaze lingered on her bandaged chest and she shifted uncomfortably. Zoltan tugged her sleeve.

"I'm gettin' sick to death with tellin' you to be careful."

She smiled and flopped down on the lovers' monument. Last time she felt the stone she had an arrow protruding from her chest. The last time she sat here Iorveth had his hand around her bleeding breast. She groaned and stretched out languidly. When did she last sleep? The concept seemed foreign to her now. And she didn't get any rest in the headquarters. Her body tingled as she relived the scene in the bedroom.

"…always runnin' around with that blasted bow in yer hand. An axe! That's a weapon! You listenin', lass?"

Zoltan snapped his fingers an inch away from her face. Rusa smiled up at him. "I've used a throwing axe before."

The dwarf's face reddened and he scoffed indignantly. "A throwing…! Flimsy human shite—that's not an axe! I'm speakin' proper dwarven craft. Double-bladed battleaxe. Enough with this elvish shit on yer back!"

"Move aside, _dwarf_." The scout from before sauntered up to them. Rusa craned her neck and saw Geralt and Iorveth marching down the hill. "You!"—he glared at Rusa—"Come with me. We're to wait for Iorveth and the vatt'ghern down at the docks."

Rusa jumped up and dusted herself off. She looked around. "Just us?"

"No, dh'oine. The unit awaits us below. Come, quickly." The scout disappeared into the bushes.

Rusa threw Zoltan a swift smile as she readjusted her bow. "See you on the barge?"

"Aye, lass. Good luck."

* * *

"Stop stumbling!"

Rusa gritted her teeth. "It's _dark_."

She trailed behind the scout as he marched on ahead. They'd been walking towards the docks in the silence—Rusa, five Scoia'tael, and who knew how many more in the trees. She recognised the elf they'd met when asking for Iorveth. Before they'd been led into an arachas lair. He caught her eye and frowned in annoyance.

"Find something interesting, dh'oine?"

"Not really," Rusa mumbled.

The elf raised an eyebrow. "Typical Xin'trean dh'oine filth."

"Quite a mouthful, there. Are Cintran dh'oine worse than usual?" The elf stiffened. They were so easy to annoy.

"You're all equally abhorrent," he said.

"Ah."

They marched on in silence until a scout jumped from the bushes a few feet ahead.

"Ele'yas," he said and the elf next to Rusa gave a flick of his head.

"What news?"

"A vantage point, some way ahead. Iorveth and the vatt'ghern are almost at the barge."

He pointed through a set of trees and Rusa ran off, ignoring Ele'yas's frustrated cry. She settled herself against the thick trunk of an oak and drew her bow. Ele'yas and the others joined her on the riverbank and readied themselves. The barge was some 200 feet away and they could see Geralt leading Iorveth down the dock, the elf's hands 'bound' behind his back. Ele'yas shot her a look.

"You need to follow orders," he said with a tight voice. "I'm surprised you survived Brenna."

Rusa smirked. "I survived because I _didn't_ follow orders." He looked at her like she was mad. She didn't mind. Anything to have him leave her alone.

The scout raised his hand in anticipation. Rusa watched as Iorveth slammed his shoulder into a guard's chest, lifting him in the air until he flew overboard. She notched an arrow and aimed for the guard running towards Geralt. The scout dropped his arm in an order to shoot. Rusa released, along with three other Scoia'tael. Four arrows lodged into the back of the guard who collapsed at the witcher's feet with a thud. Several rounds later and Geralt and Iorveth stood alone on the barge, searching for stragglers. The scout gestured for them to follow and they darted along the riverbank, climbing onto the barge. Rusa rushed to Geralt to make sure he wasn't injured. Pointless, of course. She looked Iorveth over briefly and averted her gaze when their eyes locked.

A voice rang out across the docks. "I knew you'd partner with those hate mongers, mutant! Think yourself a hero, do you?"

Rusa's eyes snapped up to the waving flame on the balcony of one of the guard towers. The commandant stood there, holding an elven woman by her hair.

"How the hell did he escape?!" she yelled over the alarm bells.

Loredo tightened his grip and the girl's neck snapped back violently. "Sail away and I'll burn these sluts alive!"

Rusa shot Geralt a desperate look and climbed onto the railing. A hand wrapped around her wrist. Iorveth stared down at her, his mouth pressed into a grim line. "We sail. Our women are prepared to die." He pulled her from the railing and stormed off as she fell to the floor.

"Geralt, say something!"

Loredo's maniacal laugh travelled across the river. The witcher's eyes darted back and forth and then he helped Rusa onto the railing. He turned to Iorveth, the elf's back to them. "But I'm not about to let murder happen. We're going ashore."

Rusa was already running towards the tower when she heard Iorveth swear loudly. Loredo threw his torch on the roof and the building shot up flames. He threw the girl inside and sprinted down the steps towards the town gate.

"Geralt, follow him! I'll take care of the women," shouted Rusa and the witcher ran past her, hacking down the guards in his path.

She dashed up the walkway, shooting an arrow at the guard by the entry. Digging her boot into his slumped body Rusa barged through the door. The flames spread rapidly and she could hardly see from the smoke. She brought her arm to her mouth but it made little difference. Waving her arms about frantically she raced up the stairs and found two elven women writhing around on the floor, hands bound. Rusa fumbled with the ties, her fingers slippery with sweat. The three of them ran to the balcony and she gestured for the women to jump first. Rusa stared at the water hesitantly. It was quite a distance. She'd never been one for heights. She prepared to dive. A flame licked her body and she toppled over the balcony, crashing into the water with ungracefully. The other women were already swimming towards the barge, which Iorveth had anchored a little ways off. _He stayed_ , Rusa thought, surprised.

She climbed onto the railing and slid down the side, exhausted. In the corner of her eye she saw Geralt flash past her. Iorveth spoke with him and then ordered to set sail. Rusa crept down to the lower level and found herself a corner. Ciaran's body was gone.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Footsteps sounded on the stairs and she groaned. Iorveth knelt beside her, fingers roaming over her bandage. Rusa slapped his hands away. He shot her an irritable look and brought his hands up again. This time, she let him. He gave the cloth around her neck a sharp tug and it fell past her breasts. She shielded herself quickly.

"What do you think you're doing?"

The elf sat back and unravelled a clean piece of cloth. "The bandage is soaked through. Your wound will get infected."

Rusa snatched the material and, with one arm covering her chest, tried knotting it at the top of her spine. She moved around awkwardly, balancing one end of the cloth on her neck and joining it with the other unsuccessfully. The arm covering her breast lifted instinctively and she brought them both down with a huff. Leaning against the wall, she stared at Iorveth with a haughty expression and removed her arms. His lips flickered in amusement and he reached behind her to tie the cloth. With his face only inches from hers Rusa focused on his scar. A wound that jagged and deep would have taken months to heal. She wondered if he still had his other eye.

He smoothed the bandage and rearranged her shirt. The necklace fell over her chest. "You saved our women. We are indebted…"

"The names of those who killed Derae," Rusa said, remembering the letter and handing it over. Iorveth scanned it quickly and crumpled it in his fist.

She watched him leave and exhaled loudly. She stared ahead in a daze, lightly tracing a finger over the gold chain. She felt a bump and held the tiny tag in between her fingers. In the darkness, Rusa squinted at the engraving in elegant, swirling font.

 _Anna_.

* * *

A/N: If you've read this far, thank you so much! Part Two will take me a while. Needless to say, The Witcher lore is DENSE...but fun. Thank you again for reading, I hope you enjoyed it.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N - Hi guys - welcome to the start of Part Two - "Not Flotsam". I give you the first chapter - "Vergen with a dash of Flotsam". Confused? Such is the way of The Witcher...

Disclaimer - I own nada except Rusa

* * *

Compared to Flotsam's inn, The Cauldron had a rather charming, rugged appeal to it. Several tables were scattered around the lower floor with the token fist fighting section confined to the far corner. Despite the occasional jeer or whistle, the soft music and dim lighting made the place surprisingly cosy. Rusa drew her legs up to her chest and stared into the fire. Dandelion deemed it necessary to regale her with his saga of Toussaint and illicit love affair with Duchess Anna Henrietta. Apparently, he'd referred to the Duchess as his 'little weasel' and Rusa purposely tuned out when the bard launched into the origins of the nickname.

They'd arrived in Vergen not two hours ago after finding Saskia and Prince Stennis wounded from their parley with Henselt. The Kaedweni king and his mages had already disappeared and they were left to fend off the wraiths until Philippa Eilhart showed up. The mage transforming from her owl-form… Rusa still couldn't get her head wrapped around it. She didn't recall her mother having such ability. Philippa was powerful indeed.

Rusa shivered at the thought. She thought of the council meeting and smiled as she pictured those noble faces on seeing Iorveth saunter into the room. Saskia insisted on having him there. Surprisingly, she'd asked Rusa to attend as well but the latter had blushed furiously and declined, rushing off to the inn with Dandelion instead. The Virgin of Aedirn was almost too much. Too beautiful. Too good. And brave, well-spoken, fair… Rusa couldn't help but be nervous in her presence. Iorveth's praise was completely justified. He'd placed her on a pedestal and was content on admiring her from below. _Is she your fiancée?_

Dandelion turned to her with a smile and his eyes crinkled at the sound. "She laughs! I couldn't even get a smile out of you during our journey down the Pontar."

Rusa sobered and gave him an apologetic look. The voyage had been long and stifling. In between fitful sleeps she occupied herself by listening to Zoltan and Dandelion argue over the best mead—Mahakaman for the dwarf, Sodden for the bard. Shooting Rusa a wink, Zoltan declared his favourite drink to be Cintran Faro. She joined in eventually and mentioned one her favourites to be Mettina Rose wine, which then led to a heated argument between the other two over various wines she'd never heard of. Zoltan put an end to it by pronouncing all human liquor the equivalent of a rotfiend's ball sack.

She saw little of Geralt and even less of Iorveth. When she did see the elf he was either consulting with his unit or discussing something with the witcher. During the evening she'd been leaning against the railing on the upper deck, so lost in her thoughts that at first she didn't notice Iorveth draw up beside her. She kept her gaze on the water and was grateful when he did the same. Neither spoke a word. As for the rest of the Scoia'tael, they'd avoided her as if she were ridden with the Catriona plague. The women she'd rescued from Loredo gave a reluctant thanks before ignoring her for the rest of the voyage. Knowing the Blue Stripes would have welcomed her on board made it all the harder.

"You _do_ make me laugh, Dandelion," Rusa stressed and smiled when his face lit up. There was nothing more important to a bard than knowing he'd entertained his audience. She sighed and scanned the room with tired eyes. "It's been a rough few weeks."

He gave a solemn nod and sat down by the fire, mimicking her pose. His appearance was so outlandish compared to the others—pinks, purples, stripes, satin, silk. Quite the ensemble. No one else could wear it but him. Rusa imagined him singing for a group of swooning noblewomen, completely in his element. But he was also the type to entertain in the back alleys of Flotsam. Dandelion was good company and she was happy he travelled to Vergen instead of the other side.

"How does Vergen fair in terms of numbers and resources?" she asked, lightly tracing the red cloth on her chest. The wound was healing well, still sore at some angles but it was on the mend. It was a strange sensation when her mind flashed back to the incident in the ruins, a sharp pang in her chest as if she were reliving the shot. At least, that's what she told herself.

The bard recovered quickly from this sharp turn in conversation and pursed his lips in thoughtful expression. "The dwarves, around two hundred, I believe. But they're not to be judged by their number! I've heard rumour of five hundred peasants but we can't be sure if that many will actually take part. That's understandable, isn't it?" He received an impatient nod to continue. "As for the nobles, fifty knights and another two hundred armed men."

"Not enough," mumbled Rusa.

Dandelion shook his head. "According to Yarpen, Henselt leads five thousand. That's five to one against us. There's a positive in all this, though." Rusa looked up at him inquiringly. "Vergen's a fortress, its walls almost impenetrable."

"And positioned on top of those walls…"

Dandelion's eyes sparkled mischievously. "Iorveth's archers."

She fell silent. The Scoia'tael were certainly invaluable and could well be the only chance Vergen had of surviving the onslaught. But was it enough? There had to be more. Somewhere, somehow, there _had_ to be more.

"What of Vergen's resources? Weaponry and the like?"

Dandelion sighed dramatically. "Vergen sits atop a mine so there's no shortage of metals. Gold, on the other hand…"

"Surely _Prince_ Stennis has a sizeable income?" Rusa asked incredulously.

Dandelion scanned the room before muttering under his breath, "The Prince is surprisingly frugal—or so I've heard."

Rusa leapt up and paced in front of the hearth. The bard watched her with a small smile on his face. The girl had an idea and he couldn't wait to be involved.

"I assume Vergen doesn't have its own bank."

"I guess you could say it _is_ its own bank considering the mine below us," he replied with a grin. "I believe Igor Vivaldi travels as a liaison between here and the Vivaldi Bank branch in Vengerberg. Although, word is he only makes the journey once a month."

Dandelion watched as Rusa let out a frustrated groan. The determined look on her face as she paced back and forth with a small frown. The way she clenched her fist in thought before resting it against her mouth. The bard, ever astute, saw someone else reflected in her movements.

"Any funds I have sit in the vaults of Novigrad. Perhaps if I were to take the funds from Vengerberg, send word to Novigrad somehow…" she murmured before turning on Dandelion in annoyance. " _Once a month!_ We'd have more chance if we were to collect the money ourselves." She turned on her heel theatrically as the main door crashed open. Iorveth stormed towards two Scoia'tael with a pained expression.

"Something's happened," said Dandelion, excitement evident in his voice. Rusa supposed the entertainer also had to be entertained somehow and anything remotely scandalous seemed to do the trick. Several other occupants peered over their mugs of ale unable to hide their curiosity. Word of Iorveth's arrival in Vergen was met with harsh whispers, which then escalated into wide-eyed alarm amongst the townsfolk in Rhundurin Square. Human women ordered their children inside and took to standing sentry on the doors. The men huddled together before deciding to form a barrier directly in front of the main gate. This was quickly disbanded on seeing Saskia march into the square, no terrorist elf in sight. The Virgin had foreseen the frenzy his arrival would cause and demanded he give her time to settle any fears.

Rusa rushed after Iorveth as he left the inn. "What's going on?" He turned suddenly and she collided with his chest. The elf let out an annoyed grunt and beckoned her to follow. Rubbing her shoulder absently, she hurried to match his pace.

"Saskia's been poisoned," he said as they climbed a set of stairs. Rusa heard the panic in his voice and her stomach fluttered uncomfortably. They joined Geralt and a dwarf waiting outside Saskia's quarters. The two Scoia'tael took their posts on either side of the door.

The dwarf frowned at Iorveth. "Why so glum? Saskia's a tough girl, she'll bounce back." The elf ignored him and slumped against the wall, folding his arms.

"Psh! Elven manners," snorted the dwarf, and held out a hand. "But where are _my_ manners? Cecil Burdon, Vergen's alderman." Cecil's broad palm engulfed Rusa's in an enthusiastic shake. She glanced at Iorveth nervously, uncomfortable exchanging pleasantries at a time like this.

"A pleasure. I'm—"

"I know who yer are, lass. That's my job."

Cecil gave a tight smile and turned his gaze on the door. Rusa was thankful for the silence. She took a seat next to Geralt and lowered her head, in tune with the gravity of the situation. Saskia— _poisoned?_ Apparently the enemy didn't reside solely on the other side of the mist.

"She's ceased casting spells," Iorveth said softly. Everyone's eyes snapped up immediately. Philippa emerged with an unreadable expression and studied all of them individually before settling on Geralt.

"Is she alive?" he asked.

"In a manner of speaking. I've slowed her life functions as far as possible—" she looked at Iorveth—"Her condition is stable."

"Do you know the poison?"

"Thaumador," continued Philippa. "Commonly known as magepain. It has a terrible reputation…"

Iorveth spoke through his teeth. "An antidote _must_ exist."

Rusa stepped in between Geralt and Cecil. "What can we do?"

Philippa gave her a small nod, a greeting of sorts. She seemed more approachable than Sile but just as decadent in her dress. Rusa's mind flashed to Triss—naturally beautiful with no need of fancy gowns. Where _was_ she?

"Treatment will require herbs, magic…and blood," spoke Philippa, focusing on Geralt.

"Not ordinary blood I presume…"

"Correct. We require royal blood."

Rusa snorted when Iorveth muttered something about Letho under his breath. She cast her eyes to ground, cheeks burning as Philippa looked on unamused.

"A tragic irony indeed," the mage hummed, lips pursed.

Geralt sighed and gestured over his shoulder. "The nearest king is on the other side of the mists of wraiths."

Rusa's stomach tightened. She didn't want to think about those on the other side. Meeting Philippa's gaze, she asked, "What of Prince Stennis?"

The mage inclined her head in agreement. "Precisely. It need not be the blood of a ruling monarch. It is the genotype contained in royal blood that is required. Kings issue from ancient dynasties…" Rusa groaned inwardly as Philippa launched into detail about the genes of kings and self-healing, genetic therapy—none of which she understood.

"You'll have her drink human blood?" asked Iorveth with disdain. Rusa shot him an impatient look. If this was what needed to be done, then so be it. They'd no time for petty grievances.

"No," replied Philippa. "I shall inject it directly into her heart."

Iorveth ignored Rusa's grimace and looked at Geralt expectantly.

"What kind of herbs are we talking about?" asked the witcher.

"I'll need a subterranean variety of purple foxglove—known to the dwarves as the immortelle." Philippa looked at Cecil who gave a small nod. "And an elven rose of remembrance."

"Triss had… _has_ a rose of remembrance," Rusa cut in. She noticed Geralt blink slowly, a movement peculiar to him when he was struggling with his thoughts. She pressed on. "She says the flowers are exceptional."

"They are indeed," said Philippa. "Long ago, the Aen Seidhe who succeeded in cultivating the roses enjoyed great respect."

Rusa could almost hear Iorveth's jaw grinding. "Times have changed," he said.

"As have elves," countered Philippa. The elf bit back a sneer as she stared at him, impassive yet unable to hide the mischievous spark in her eyes.

"There are no elven gardens nearby," he hissed. "We must return to Flotsam."

"It's Triss we need to find," said Geralt.

Rusa let out a heavy sigh. "We don't know how long it will take to find her," she said softly and placed a hand on his arm. Geralt turned on her and narrowed his eyes. "We'll keep looking but we also need to help Saskia," she stuttered, thankful when Philippa drew the witcher's attention away with cold, hard logic.

"She's right. Triss will be found, Geralt, but Saskia's wellbeing is our priority." Philippa gestured toward Iorveth. "If returning to Flotsam will save us valuable time, then so be it."

"I'll take two of my men and set off immediately," mumbled the elf, clearly displeased with the thought of return. He gave Geralt a quick nod before heading off towards the eastern gate.

Rusa scoffed in disbelief and waited for someone to interrupt with some common sense. When the witcher and Philippa fell into conversation about where to find the immortelle, she ran after Iorveth and caught up with him just before the gate.

"You can't go back there—they'll kill you as soon as you appear on the Pontar!"

"We'll be travelling on foot," he replied, not bothering to look back.

"It doesn't matter how you get there, Flotsam wants you dead."

She stopped in her tracks. Flotsam had always wanted him dead. With Loredo gone, who was in charge? Who was rallying up the townsfolk and spewing hatred against the Scoia'tael? She almost laughed. _Not Louis Merse, surely_. That pompous idiot would have undoubtedly escaped on hearing news of the Commandant's death. Now that she thought about it, everyone in Flotsam believed the Scoia'tael to be gone. Iorveth would certainly have the element of surprise but the entire situation felt wrong.

"You're no good to anyone dead," she said softly, her voice echoing through the small grove. Iorveth turned on her.

"My being dead would bring a lot of good to many people, I imagine."

Rusa bit back a smile. He spoke the truth, after all, and the tone of his voice hinted at a certain pleasure in it.

"What's the plan, then?" she asked.

His expression hardened immediately. "You're to stay with Geralt. Help him find the other ingredients."

"I need to get to Vengerberg. To the bank—" Iorveth made a strange, disbelieving noise in the back of his throat—"For funds."

Rusa shuffled to the side of the grove, amazed at how ridiculous it sounded. Said to the man desperate to cure a dying woman and wasting precious time standing here listening to it all. She clenched her fists and stepped towards him. It was the truth and the money would benefit Vergen's war effort greatly. Clearly, Saskia's nobles weren't exceeding expectations on the financial front.

"If Vergen is to survive the onslaught, the city needs a way of funding itself beyond what's found in the mines," she said with confidence and was surprised when Iorveth seemed to consider her words. "Food, shelter, armour, weaponry. Gold buys this and more. Put the word out that Vergen has the funds for trade and I guarantee merchants across Aedirn will risk their hides for the right price."

The elf regarded her coolly. "You plan to go alone to Vengerberg? Transport the gold on horseback?"

Rusa felt the heat rise to her cheeks and checked her composure. This would be the clincher; she needed to word it right. "I can accompany you to Flotsam—"

"You're to stay here."

"One more archer wouldn't harm your cause. Once in Flotsam, I'll secure a ship, just—" she held up a hand when he began to protest—"I'll figure that part out on the way. If you could spare one of your men, I can then continue down the Dyfne to Vengerberg. I should return within the week. You can make your way back to Vergen with the rose as soon as we leave Flotsam."

Iorveth drew back and folded his arms. He could have laughed. How did this dh'oine survive the war? Against _his_ men, no less. Aedirn was in revolt and if she thought she could merely sail down the Dyfne with no risk of consequence, she was as foolish as all other dh'oine. A pity, since the elf had momentarily believed the woman possessed an ounce of intelligence. His frown deepened as she brought her hands to her hips and stared at him impatiently. The clothes of a bandit with the haughty mannerisms of a noble. He'd have to tell her to remove the bandage eventually and not simply because the wound would heal faster if able to breathe. When she stood in front of him like this, jaw set in determination, her puny hands clenched at her sides, the Scoia'tael red draped over her chest angered him. She was the epitome of an outsider, belonging neither here nor there, clothed in an assortment of items that contradicted each other at every turn. The Scoia'tael cloth clashing with the Blue Stripes undershirt, which sat under an Aedirnian leather jacket picked up for free in Rhundurin Square. Iorveth was quick to ignore the nagging voice in his head. They were, of course, similarly clothed in mismatched style except everything _he_ wore had been taken in exchange for a life.

 _She chose to follow you._

He brushed the reminder aside. He didn't trust her. Not with her history. His blood boiled when he thought of Vernon Roche hiding out somewhere on the other side of the mist. He'd get the bastard, eventually. Now was not the time to dwell on it. The focus was on Saskia and Vergen. He looked Rusa over once more and conceded she had a point, and a valid one at that. But was it worth the risk?

"Are you done?"

Iorveth bit back his annoyance. "How much gold?"

"Enough."

"Enough to justify a suicide mission?"

Rusa frowned. "Who said anything about suicide?"

"If you sail down the Dyfne, death will be the least of your worries," he replied dryly.

"That's a bit melodramatic. Although, I suppose I should take your advice considering you're still alive after—" she paused and studied him curiously—"so many years…"

"Many years," he confirmed, quick to conceal his amusement. After centuries of blood and battle genuine amusement—the rare kind derived from something other than cruelty—was a long forgotten feeling, dead and buried. Best to leave it where it lies. "Assuming you don't need an entire ship, you'd be better going on foot."

The way her eyes brightened mischievously left Iorveth unsettled. A warning was all well and good but it didn't defeat the fact that trouble often sought her out of its own accord. Considering the events at Flotsam, he couldn't afford to risk anymore of his men. And for a dh'oine at that! Helping Saskia was something else entirely. Iorveth chose not to divulge her true form to the rest of the Scoia'tael and they were smart enough not to question his intent. As his thoughts drifted to the dragonslayer, he felt his anger rise and directed it at the easiest target. Rusa, for her part, noticed the shift in his demeanour and braced herself for the outburst. Iorveth made to speak then let out a lazy 'hmph'. He imagined only a few weeks ago she'd been bathed in sunlight, reclined on a plush velvet lounge sipping exotic teas whilst speaking of inane whims and fancies. And brave, indomitable Saskia, who every minute he wasted here, was slowly dying an undeserved death. For the first time in his long life, something ached. His heart, supposedly, but after so many years of hardening he didn't even know, having nothing to serve as comparison.

"I'll not risk my men for a Xin'trean dh'oine," he said, unfazed as Rusa let out a small cry of despair. Whether towards his change of mind or the harshness of his words, he didn't know—didn't care. She survived Brenna, had proven herself at Flotsam, could obviously hold her own despite her naiveté and that was enough justification for him.

"Again with the Cintran nonsense," she mumbled surprising him with a laugh. "Is it dh'oine in general you hate? Or Cintran dh'oine, specifically? Because I'm starting to notice a pattern."

Iorveth gave a dismissive wave and continued down the grove, ignoring the stubborn thought formulating against his will. He was well aware of the reception he'd receive in Flotsam if his whereabouts were made known. Essentially, no different than usual but he assumed the forests were swarming with militia in case of his return. Not that he cared. He'd cut down every last dh'oine in that filthy cesspit until the ground lay drenched with their blood. Philippa needed the rose and he'd risk his life to retrieve it. But what if he and his men _were_ to get caught, what then? He'd evaded them for this long but the slither of doubt was persistent. He glanced over his shoulder. Rusa watched on with a crestfallen expression and for a moment—the briefest of moments—he bristled at the knowledge he'd caused it. She was emotionally volatile like every other dh'oine. But this one was useful, at least. She'd proven herself several times. Regret washed over him the moment he opened his mouth.

"Be ready to leave by sundown."

Rusa stared into the cavern as she closed the gate and slumped against the wall. Back to Flotsam with no promises made about Vengerberg. An unwelcome thought drifted and squeezed its way through the others. _Roche would have spared the men._

* * *

Dandelion was much dismayed to hear of Rusa's parting. She was, after all, a willing and semi-captive audience to many of his tales and he'd have to find someone else to focus on. Thankfully, the bard was a professional. A buxom serving girl was quick to catch his eye and with a farewell thrown in her general direction, Rusa was left lingering awkwardly in the entrance of the inn before setting off to the Scoia'tael base camp beyond the eastern gate. In the few hours given to prepare for the journey, she'd indulged in a hot bath and an equally hot meal. Who knew what Iorveth's elves ate around their campfire? Berries and nuts were hardly substantial.

A horse was saddled and ready when she arrived at the run-down shack. A sturdy, Vergen mount, nothing fancy but reliable and sure-footed.

Rusa wove her fingers through the black mane. "We'll be riding together for sometime. Do you have a name?"

"We brought her over from stable seven. A strong girl."

The she-elf who'd sent them to the arachas lair approached with confident strides. She touched the horse lightly behind the ears, earning an appreciative whinny in response. Rusa inquired again as to the horse's name and was ignored. The Scoia'tael weren't exactly a warm, inviting people but this one had perfected the art of aloofness. The elf reached into a satchel hung loosely from her belt and pulled out a piece of fruit, the horse unable to resist going for the grab. After an uncomfortable silence, Rusa smiled and gave it a quick tap on the rump.

"In that case, I shall call you Seven. Sev, for short." Seven snuffled in what Rusa understood to be an agreement. She glanced at the elf. "And you?"

"The horse has a name, I assume you do as well," she pressed on after receiving a suspicious look. The elf merely resumed her feeding routine. Rusa gritted her teeth. She was starting to feel like a third wheel. "Suppose I'll make one up then."

"Toruviel." The elf wiped her hands on tight woollen leggings and tucked a runaway strand of hair into her bandana. "No need to tell me yours."

"Noted," Rusa mumbled and left to seek out Iorveth. Several Scoia'tael huddled around the entrance of the shack, a few of them the women from the burning watchtower. As expected, they continued to ignore the person who'd saved their lives. Simply because she was a dh'oine who didn't merit a second glance.

Iorveth sat alone in front of a dim fire seemingly lost in his thoughts. He appeared relaxed as he slouched into a worn armchair with his fingers laced across his stomach. Rusa watched them move to the rhythm of his breathing. The movement seemed suspended in time; the rise and fall of his chest the sole disturbance in the silence. He knew she was there, of course, despite his working eye turned toward the fire. He'd heard her footsteps long before the telltale creak of the door. She was sure-footed, heavy-footed when compared to an elf, with the kind of step belonging to one accustomed to having her way. Interspersed throughout, however, was a hesitancy that signalled her acceptance of an unfamiliar situation and acknowledgment of needing to adapt. Iorveth appreciated the doubt. Without it, she'd jeopardise the safety of his men.

He heard her calling from the doorway and kept his gaze on the failing embers. Truthfully, he'd needed a moment alone. The dread of returning too late and hearing news of Saskia's death became too much to bear. They'd been discussing the journey to Flotsam when he scrunched up the map, tossed it into the arms of another and stormed into the shack. His men had the intelligence to know their commander didn't want to be disturbed. Of course, the dh'oine possessed no such thing. Iorveth closed his eyes. They needed to leave immediately. The rage was overwhelming and would do nothing but hinder their cause if left unchecked. He tried. He _tried_ to suppress the anger but before he'd get close the image of Saskia on her deathbed would unleash it anew. He'd kill them all. Whoever they were. The poisoners, the people in Flotsam, the bastards on the other side of the mist… When they stood in his way they'd die. If _she_ got in his way, she would also die. A dh'oine, and an expendable one at that.

"…and there's something quite strong about 'Sev' so it stuck…"

A small, involuntary frown interrupted his musings. It was not the callousness of his last thought that left him surprised but the sudden discomfort of what it entailed. Iorveth turned his bemusement on the woman speaking animatedly in the doorway. He inclined his head ever so slightly and felt that odd satisfaction he'd come to experience whenever she hesitated in her speech or faltered in her step. Something predatory in him insisted her unease was fully justified. At least she knew her place. Sometimes. She was a fool to keep seeking him out like this and ending up alone in his company. Many were dead because of it. Now to be surrounded by Scoia'tael without Geralt to hide behind…

"Why haven't we left yet? What are we waiting for?"

She was never silent for long. Iorveth paced over to a pile of blades and unsheathed the lightest one he could find. Light, perhaps, but still deadly when used right. He glanced at her then. She had no idea what was 'right'.

"Used one before?" He asked, pointing it towards her. Rusa wrapped her fingers around the hilt and let out a frustrated noise as her arm buckled under the weight.

"Hopefully not," he drawled and watched as she composed herself quickly and levelled the sword between them. She stared at him evenly.

"I've found the bow to be more than efficient."

Iorveth didn't miss the taunting lilt of her voice.

"That may be so," he replied calmly, "but it cannot continue to be your sole source of reliance."

Rusa's eyebrows shot up. "Are you offering to teach me? You would deign to help the lowly Cintran dh'oine?"

A tense moment passed between them. Rusa knew she'd crossed a line. In fact, she knew she'd overstepped it way back on entering the shack unannounced. Immediately, she checked herself. Geralt wasn't here to help her out. She was in foreign territory—foreign, _enemy_ territory two weeks prior.

Iorveth waited for her to speak. The number one weakness of all dh'oine was that their face reflected their thoughts. Rusa, he could tell, was struggling with the knowledge that she'd spoken recklessly. There was worry, the stubborn pride at knowing her mistake, the acceptance. It was all playing out. He didn't care, of course, but it amused him greatly for her to think he did. Despite currently being wound up like a spring with a volatile temper, he'd not waste his energy on her. Yet.

"That was…ungrateful," she said slowly and let out a sigh of relief when Iorveth simply motioned her to follow.

* * *

Dusk had already fallen as the four of them meandered through the Vergen ravines. Iorveth rode ahead with Ele'yas, who'd voiced his opinions on the dh'oine accompanying them without delay. Rusa rode a little ways behind with Toruviel but remained close enough to catch frustrated snippets of "doesn't follow orders" and "cares only for her own skin". Unpleasant as this was she had a hard time disagreeing with the first. But the second was hurtful. She _cared_. To his credit Iorveth spoke a similar thought. The girl may be reckless but was not without loyalty. Ele'yas shot her a dark look over his shoulder to which Rusa responded in kind. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably. Gods. He was a piece of work.

They were to skirt the mountains in order to reach the Pontar before losing themselves in the forest. Toruviel held firm when Iorveth insisted they quicken their pace. The horses, strong as they were, would risk losing their footing if pushed further. Rusa was surprised when Iorveth murmured his assent despite the subtle tightening of his jaw. It was to take them a day to reach Flotsam with the help of the horses. Two and a half days in total, there and back including sleep, whilst Saskia lay dying. Toruviel politely reminded her commander of the situation. Again, he grunted in agreement but not without quickening his pace somewhat. Rusa made to nudge Seven so as to catch up when the she-elf placed a hand on the reins and shook her head with an emphatic "no".

"He must see reason."

Rusa slowed and loosened her grip. She was acutely aware of the tension rising between the four of them. They'd been marching for six hours with only Ele'yas's intermittent insults for commentary. She leaned forward and nestled her face in Seven's mane. "Asleep _already_!" followed inmmediately and she let out a muffled laugh. The elf's contempt was all she had for entertainment. Several minutes later and Iorveth eased off the reins. Rusa viewed this as quite an achievement on Toruviel's part but the elf was unfazed.

"He leads because he is able to follow," she pointed out suddenly. Rusa blanched at the intimacy of such a statement knowing full well those in front heard every word.

"Both admirable qualities," she replied and blushed at her flimsy attempt at diplomacy. The last few weeks had effectively undone all lessons in Cintran etiquette. An expectation to indulge and appease another's lofty ideals was taught at an early age amongst nobles. If this was an ability Rusa had developed she was fast forgetting how to wield it.

Toruviel kept her eyes firmly ahead almost as if trying to simultaneously ignore and engage the woman on her left. "Do you believe yourself to possess them?"

Rusa could hear Ele'yas shaking his head. "I believe so."

The elf opened her mouth to speak then thought better of it. Finally, she gave a curt nod of approval. "Belief in those qualities is important." Rusa sensed a 'but'. "However, one must _certain_."

"I'm most certain I believe in my possessing the aforementioned abilities." There it was—the last scrap of etiquette. Carelessly discarded in a Vergen ravine. Well, that was that.

"You speak like them." Toruviel turned on her with narrowed eyes and repeated, slower this time, "You speak like _them_."

"I'm going to have to cut you off there. I assume you're referring to 'Cintran dh'oine'. You know, even if we all sound alike that's not to mean we're all the same. That's equivalent to me saying you're as surly as Ele'yas because you're both Scoia'tael."

"I did not mean—"

" _Enough_ , Toruviel!" Ele'yas turned and sent her a reproachful look. She cast her gaze at Iorveth who simply held up a hand signalling both to be quiet. Rusa supposed the same applied to her and busied herself with a conveniently loose buckle hanging from her saddle. Iorveth glanced over briefly and assumed her close to exhaustion or death having conceded so easily to his demand.

Toruviel was the one to suggest setting up camp for the night. Again, Iorveth insisted on continuing since it was only a few hours until they reached open plains. There they would set up camp ready to make haste at dawn. And again, Toruviel stood firm in her decision. They'd been travelling for over nine hours and the horses needed to rest. Plus, they had the added advantage of shelter in the ravine. Meanwhile Rusa unfurled her sleeping mat and blanket she'd taken from The Cauldron and refused to be embarrassed when the rest used the ground as their beds. She'd slept in horrific conditions but that was no reason to renounce any opportunity for comfort. And constantly avoiding Ele'yas's glares was hardly comfortable so the mat and blanket made a disagreeable situation bearable. She breathed a sigh of relief when he offered to stand guard first and disappeared around a crag.

Iorveth took his place by the fire. He looked Rusa over, wrapped up and huddled in her blanket as close to the heat as the flames would allow. "We travel to Flotsam directly come morning. We've no time to stop."

"I think you'll get some resistance." Toruviel was fixing a strap on Sev's bit. She gave no sign she could hear them. They all seemed rather adept at pretending not to listen. How awful it would be to hear all and sundry! Perhaps they were able to tune out certain noises…

"It matters not. We _must_ ride on." Iorveth checked himself but not before both heard the agitation. Rusa played ignorant.

"Perhaps we stop for short breaks in order to maintain a steady pace."

He stared at her with a peculiar intensity. Rusa couldn't tell if he was angry, thoughtful, or disgusted. After all, she was casually offering suggestions on travel strategy to someone who'd spent most of his long life perfecting exactly that. A stray piece of thread at the base of the blanket became the centre of her attention.

"The suggestion is not without merit but lacks awareness of the specific situation at hand."

Rusa looked up in exasperation. "I'm not one of your commandos!" Triss's voice seared through her and for the briefest moment she was back on Flotsam's beach, warding off Scoia'tael arrows from inside a dome of butterflies with Geralt fighting at her side, Roche leading the way to the trading post. She felt queasy. Sitting with the elf responsible for all those attacks…So much had changed. She averted her eyes from Iorveth's scrutiny.

"You should remove your bandage," he said, breaking the silence. Rusa nodded absently, tracing her fingers across the material, brushing the necklace as she reached to undo the top knot. She shifted her shirt and touched the scar tissue, soft and pulpy. After being covered for so long the feeling of cool air against her chest was invigorating. She glanced at Iorveth with a small smile.

"It's healed well. I've been meaning to ask the name of the plant you used."

"Celandine," he said as his eye flittered to the chain around her neck. "Fatal to humans unless measured properly. This takes time and precision."

"Time you didn't spend, I imagine?"

"Time _you_ didn't have," he sneered. "I did what I could to return a favour. I cared not whether you lived or died at the time."

Rusa clapped her hands together. "Wonderful!" She jumped to her feet. "Well, this was enlightening and I feel _great_!" Iorveth ignored her. She mumbled her goodnights and stormed over to her sleeping mat, forcing her mind to focus on something other than "at the time".

* * *

"Again."

Rusa sidestepped just in time to avoid the blade. She turned on her heel with a laughable lack of grace and swung her sword in Ele'yas's general direction. The elf pierced his weapon into the dirt impatiently and signalled her to stop.

"One _step_ , two _step_ —" he danced to her left and turned quickly—"spin and _swing_." The blade came to a halt inches from her throat. Rusa looked up at him irritably and tried for a fifth time. She was improving slowly but the elf would never admit it.

They'd stopped for a final break not far from the bridge that would take them to Flotsam's forest. Iorveth insisted that Rusa learn some basic techniques before heading into the chaos that undoubtedly awaited them. Ele'yas was the first to offer his expertise claiming this would at least lessen the chance of her endangering everyone else. Rusa had reluctantly agreed and followed him into a small clearing.

"Again," Ele'yas repeated, a look of dismay crossing his face as Rusa stumbled on the last step. She gave an angry grunt and tossed her blade to the ground, collapsing onto a broken bough.

"Your stamina is terrible even for a dh'oine," he went on dryly, earning a harsh glare.

"You can't expect me to become an expert in an hour! The blade's heavy—I can't keep my balance." She jumped up suddenly, reinvigorated by the opportunity to complain. She pointed an accusing finger and stormed towards him. "I also feel the need to point out that what you're teaching me aren't simply basic techniques but _Scoia'tael_ basic techniques. There's a difference. And it's _difficult_. I haven't had a thousand years practice, like _you_ , or however many years you've been lurking around!"

The small amount of practice with Aryan was nothing like this. Ele'yas remained unmoved as Rusa squeezed her eyes shut and collected her blade quietly. He laughed as she made every effort to hold it steady despite it weighing down her wrist. And then, out of nowhere, a touch of pity when he saw her wince and angle her body away from him as a hand flew to her chest. The dh'oine complained a lot— _too_ much—but there seemed some level of justification. Ele'yas considered this from a pragmatic stance. It was all well and good to teach her the basics so as to _help_ her survive but what to do when the basics would more than likely get her killed? He watched as she counted her movements and retraced her steps several times. The woman wasn't weak and certainly not without muscle. Slowly but surely, she'd be able to wield the blade reasonably proficient given time. Time they didn't have. He unhitched two daggers from his belt and handed them over. Rusa stared at him.

"So, along with everything else you want me to grow another pair of arms?"

Ele'yas reached for her blade but she held back defensively.

"I'm only just getting used to it!"

"Not good enough," he said tersely causing Rusa to flush with annoyance. Finally, she snatched the daggers and looked at him expectantly. The equal distribution of weight in her hands compared to the two-handed blade provided immediate relief and she was grateful the elf decided to change tack.

Ele'yas took hold of her wrists, the sudden contact making Rusa uncomfortable. She felt no affinity with him, knew he disliked her and didn't trust her in the slightest. The feeling was mutual. Maybe that was the affinity between them—mutual contempt. It was something, at least. They performed the same movements as before with a focus on the wrist motions.

"Of course, the sword has reach," said Ele'yas with a small smile and he held her right arm higher as they moved in sync. He snatched the other dagger suddenly and pushed away from her. Rusa spun around with her blade held high and looked down at the elf in a crouching position, sharp tip poised at her stomach. His smile turned cold. "But the dagger is unpredictable."

Rusa stepped back and outstretched her hand. "I'll take your word for it," she said slowly and waited for him to return it. The elf stared at her steadily, the wild abandon now replaced with something more sinister, more deadly. And yet he seemed to be looking straight through her as if in some kind of daze. His eyes flittered over her shoulder in a moment's hesitation before handing her the hilt. Rusa grasped it firmly and pulled back, senses heightened by this sudden change in demeanour.

"I'll continue alone," she said and watched as Ele'yas regained a measure of control. He mumbled something about leaving soon and strode out of the clearing, eyes shifting restlessly.

"You rely heavily on your right foot." Toruviel jumped off a ledge, calm and serene as she tapped Rusa's knee firmly. "Too much weight on one undermines the balance of the other."

An overwhelming scent of horse rushed between them. Grasping hold of Rusa's leg, she said, "Turn."

For a second Rusa stood motionless before swivelling slowly on her grounded foot. Even with Toruviel's support the ankle buckled slightly, unused to the attention. The she-elf guided her back to the starting position. Several times the lifted leg threatened to ram itself into the ground in rebellion. Toruviel kept her grip firm. By the tenth turn the used leg was beginning to ache but persistence won out. She'd not complain as quickly as with Ele'yas. She didn't care for his opinion of her. He could think her a snivelling little dh'oine if he wished. Toruviel, on the other hand—steadfast, controlled, a fine veneer of calm that remained resolute even in battle, Rusa imagined. She cast a glance at the porcelain face, deceptively delicate in its beauty knowing full well the savagery lying in wait underneath. Like Iorveth her face held a scar but they were incomparable in terms of size and depth. A thin line traced its way from the earlobe to the corner of the mouth creating a permanent dimple on the cheek. _Not the elves of Cintran fairytales,_ Rusa mused.

"You fought against the Scoia'tael at Brenna."

Rusa frowned as Toruviel dropped her leg and equipped her own daggers, gesturing to follow with a flick of the head. Their footsteps scraped rhythmically across the earth as Toruviel played out some basic techniques. Rusa, focusing intently on copying the she-elf move for move, found little time to appreciate the serenity. Toruviel seemed content to muse a while longer, breaking the spell only to point out a mistake.

"And yet you are here with us now," the elf continued. "A strange twist of fate, would you agree?"

Rusa kept her gaze ahead and shrugged. "Fate certainly has a way of interfering."

"Step to the side after a parry. Interfering? Meaning you had a plan and something happened that saw the plan unravel?"

Rusa snorted. "A _plan_?" She glanced over at Toruviel with suspicion. Such blunt questions for a member of the Scoia'tael however the look on her face revealed them to be sincere. "I didn't plan to lose my home. I'd no plan on reaching Flotsam except to somehow survive that hellhole—sorry."

Toruviel looked up expectantly. Rusa hesitated. "The town's a hellhole. The forest is nice."

The she-elf gave a small smile in return. "You need not concern yourself—I've no emotional connection to Flotsam. Relax your wrist, watch that ankle."

"I'm sorry about the ruins," Rusa replied uncomfortably, unsure as to the intent behind the apology. For Roche's damage, she told herself. Then she remembered her bloodied body slumped against the Lovers. "And for bleeding all over the monument."

Toruviel waved a hand. "It is in the past where it shall remain. I thank you for your clarification, though. Flotsam's forests are worth fighting for. But you must elaborate further. Your plan was to survive and then you join us. How do you suppose this happened? Do you not hate the Scoia'tael?"

Rusa gritted her teeth, tired of the interrogation but understanding the need to oblige her. "I don't believe I've ever _hated_ the Scoia'tael. We were enemies in a war. There are no individuals in war, no identities; simply bodies that must live or die."

Toruviel frowned. "Interesting. I've no qualms in admitting I despised all dh'oine." She sheathed her daggers with an unnerving stare and folded her arms. Rusa focused on her footwork.

"Interesting use of past tense," she said with feigned indifference and noticing Toruviel soften slightly turned to look at her. There was a moment's pause before the elf spoke. It seemed strangely intimate despite them standing in the middle of an open clearing.

"When I fled Brenna's battlefield I was alone. The land was scorched for miles. No food, no water." Rusa nodded, the memories clear as day. "I lost track of my unit, of my commander. I had nothing and no one—I suspect it was similar for you."

"And for thousands of other survivors."

Toruviel acknowledged this with a grim smile. "Perhaps. Although, I was fleeing for my life."

Rusa struggled to feel sympathy. Many people had fled, not just for their lives but also to escape the horror, the pungent stench of death and decay, the rotting bodies piled upon one another like human funeral pyres. Most corpses were burnt, those that weren't provided food for the crows. No—no sympathy for this elf. Instead, she settled for, "Understandable."

"Nilfgaard used the Scoia'tael!" Toruviel's eyes lit up passionately. "Nilfgaard betrayed us—surrendering us to the Northern realms to be executed, placing a puppet in charge of Dol Blathanna!" Her voice wavered as she inhaled slowly. "My home."

Rusa jolted out of her reverie. "You're from Dol Blathanna?"

"As it was before the war, yes. Now…"

"Iorveth mentioned something," Rusa chimed in an attempt to ease the conversation. Sympathy she could not feel. Empathy, however… She knew what it was to lose a home. Toruviel was clearly struggling in trying to relate but the fact that she _was_ trying—she'd probably never confided in a human before. Rusa appreciated the effort.

"I couldn't return to Dol Blathanna. I didn't know where to turn. I was in dire need of food and water. I suspected I'd die during my crossing of the Mahakam mountains. Eventually, I made it to Rivia."

Rusa's thoughts flashed to Geralt. What was he doing back in Vergen? Was he making progress? Toruviel stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder, both women uncertain of the contact yet making no move to break it.

"Humans helped me in Rivia, gave me food and drink. Dh'oine like you. Without their mercy, I know what would have become of me." She stared at Rusa intently. "I see this quality in you. Perhaps it is also your curse."

Rusa made to speak but was interrupted by Ele'yas calling them to hurry. Toruviel seized her wrist.

"Be careful."

Rusa gently pried herself out of her grip with a confident smile. "I'm always careful."

"A fanciful lie if ever I've heard one."

Iorveth strode into the clearing, quickly masking his surprise on seeing the two of them so close. Toruviel gave Rusa a meaningful look, eyes silently beseeching, before mumbling something about the horses.

"I suppose you heard everything," said Rusa turning on him.

Iorveth considered this. It would not do well to reveal his curiosity. He hadn't heard everything—not _everything_. But she didn't need to know this. "Everything and nothing."

"Elvish riddle speak—how original!"

Iorveth glanced at the two daggers hanging from her waist. "Ele'yas took pity on you, I see." Rusa shoved past him with a huff.

"Wait—a moment before we depart."

The way she stood there expectantly as if _he_ was wasting _her_ time. Iorveth pressed on. "We know not what to expect on reaching the ruins but we can be almost certain Flotsam's militia will be swarming the forest like vermin."

"Good thing I've these daggers then," Rusa replied lightly.

Iorveth bore down on her, unable to suppress his anger. "This is not a _game_ , Rusa Elyot. If you insist on being reckless you won't die by the hands of the militia, I can assure you."

Rusa found herself staring directly into his chest plate. He was standing too close. In a daze, she placed a hand on his chest and pushed herself half a step back. "Are you…" She looked up at him then and almost flinched when he made eye contact, his green eye penetrating hers. "Are you threatening to kill me?"

Iorveth was unmoved. He meant it; had decided on it being so back in Vergen. It was simple. She gets in the way, she dies. The same could be said about any other dh'oine. If her life was to be forfeit so that Saskia may live, it was a course of action he was willing to take. And when he felt it rising—that strange sensation seeping from the murky depths of his conscience—he relished in the chance to see the cause of it suffer some more.

"It's your choice as to the end result. You know this."

Rusa inhaled sharply. "What I _know_ is I've done nothing but support your cause and try to secure your loyalty!"

She was surprised when Iorveth softened and closed the distance between them, bringing a hand to her chest. Rusa concentrated on his scar and tried to steady her breath, closing her eyes as he leaned in closer.

"This chain around your neck says otherwise," he spat and tugged the necklace, digging a thumb into the soft dip of her throat. Rusa spluttered and jumped back in disgust. She rounded on him; hand clasping the chain protectively.

"I'm here—with _your_ Scoia'tael—not there with—" Iorveth caught her hesitation and fixed her with a scrutinising stare. She sighed dramatically. "Does it count for nothing?"

It took every ounce of the elf's willpower not to goad her further. Saskia burst into his thoughts. _Selfish and irresponsible to put his own pleasure before the task at hand._ Rusa laughed—not exactly an unpleasant sound, Iorveth noted. A disarming tactic—one she deployed often—but he was not above admitting the woman knew how to use it.

"Perhaps it counts for nothing and everything…" she trailed off with a small smile playing on her lips. Iorveth remembered when he found her by the waterfall. He read her easily back then, he could read her easily now. The confusion as to what he saw, however, remained. He gestured her to follow and she fell into step beside him.

"We may be heavily outnumbered if they catch word of our arrival." Rusa gave a curt nod, the previous conversation forgotten. "If it becomes a lost cause, you're to take the rose and return to Vergen. You're not to look back."

Rusa swallowed her bewilderment. A moment ago he threatened to kill her and throw her to the dogs. "So, I try to help, you consider me reckless, you kill me. Or, we're overwhelmed, I take the rose, flee the fight, abandoning you and your men to save my own skin. Both options so enticing—I can't choose!"

"It's not _your_ skin that will be saved."

She sobered immediately. "Of course. And why does the burden fall to me?"

Iorveth ignored her and steadied the saddle on his horse. Rusa understood. They would never leave one of their own behind. But she wasn't one of them. _She'd_ have no problem abandoning them. The insinuation angered her. Did he truly assume her loyalty to be so flimsy that she'd willingly go along with this insanity?

"I would never forgive myself," she said softly.

"This is not about you," Iorveth reminded. "This is not about any of us."

The resignation in his voice caused Rusa to cry out. "How _have_ you lived for so long? You're unbelievably fatalistic."

For a split second, she thought the elf would laugh. A proper laugh at that, one she had trouble imagining coming from him. But he merely 'smiled' that peculiar half-concealed smirk. "Realistic." He turned to her, imploring her to understand. "You'll do as I say."

Rusa bit her lip, drawing out the inevitable. She'd no choice in the matter.

* * *

A/N - Ah, the Scoia'tael - complex creatures!...Do we miss Roche? ;)


	9. Chapter 9

A/N - Hi guys - Chapter Nine at the ready ;)

Disclaimer - No own...no no own no no

* * *

Drowsy and nauseous, Rusa slumped against the bough, head throbbing. Her breath was steady, occasionally shattered by a wheezing shudder. She snapped her eyes shut and inhaled slowly. The wheezing continued. It was heavy and laboured, somehow distant and fading as she struggled to attune. And then the movement below her—the tremor of flesh and spasm of muscle. She cradled the back of her head for support and made to shuffle forward but felt a chunk of hair pinch against her scalp. Again, the tremors. Awkwardly, hair twisted, she threw a glance over her shoulder and cried out. Her chest seized up as she stared at Sev's body collapsed and twitching. She fumbled with the massive knot caught up in the saddle and swore loudly when it only seemed to tangle further. Unhitching a dagger she wasted no time in sawing away at the stubborn strands, biting a lip at the strange sensation. In frustration, she kept chopping, unconcerned as to how much she'd have left. Sev grunted as her head snapped forward, free at last, and she scrambled over and unfastened the mouthpiece, froth seeping through her fingers as the horse fought to breathe. Propping a knee under the head for support Rusa cast a cursory glance for sign of injury. On seeing the bent leg, twisted, broken, a weeping wound so deep and oozing puss, she threw a hand to her mouth and gagged. She would never forget when they locked eyes; in all her years she would never forget the sheer helplessness of this creature. Sev's look of confusion and terror, the silent look of pleading locked on to her rider. And amidst all this—the unwavering devotion and loyalty in those eyes that caused Rusa to clench a fistful of mane and sob so violently the sound horrified her.

The horse's breath slowed and Rusa found herself torn between calming her as she slipped into death or resolving to fight for the life of that which had done the same for her. Her thoughts jostled around until the memory appeared, hazy and incoherent. She'd been overrun. The others, back in the ruins, fighting. The one soldier pursuing her… his horse had lost its footing, she remembered this now. It had drawn up parallel to them as they continued to gallop through the forest. She remembered the soldier yanking her ankle in an attempt to pull her off. When she broke free Sev rammed the other horse. Rusa pressed on as Sev gathered pace only to feel her neck whip back as they tumbled to the ground. She recalled the sound as they fell—guttural and wild as Sev's leg snapped in two, a spearhead jutting from behind the knee.

Rusa scanned their surroundings. No sign of the spear, in a daze she must have removed it. She glanced at the wound, weeping heavily, Sev losing blood, and berated herself. _Better to have left the spearhead in_. A low whimper sounded out in the clearing and she couldn't bring herself to look at the source. She heard the faint din of clashing metal in the distance. The Scoia'tael fought on. Who still lived? She pictured Toruviel lying in a pool of her own blood… Ele'yas dead, too, and Iorveth… alive? In her confusion, it was all she could hope. A twitch of the head got her attention. Sev was struggling to stay lucid. In a moment of impulse Rusa touched foreheads then slipped out from under. A life could be saved today if she had anything to say about it. She'd not abandon anyone else. She cast a wary look into the bushes. Sev would be left at the mercy of nekkers and drowners and gods knew what else.

Draping a blanket over the shivering body, she managed her bearings and fell into a run, a stitch immediately lodging itself under the ribs. The cool air on her newly uncovered neck was strangely invigorating. She saw it not too far off—the promise of help. The lights twinkled as if beckoning her to make haste. She picked up speed, retching several times but maintaining pace nonetheless. The other lights, those _other_ lights she cared not for and would avoid them at all costs as she skirted the forest's edge. Under the cover of darkness she was able to slip into the village silently and manoeuvre around the fish baskets and washing lines in the direction of the tiny shack. She knocked softly on the door, received a 'hmph', then heard the rustling of bed sheets. Rusa jimmied the window.

"Sendler!"

The old man started and gaped at her from his bed, wide-eyed. Any other situation and Rusa would have laughed at the man's makeshift pyjamas and floppy sleeping hat. Despite how ridiculous he looked, the speed in which he acknowledged her and ushered her through the door left her momentarily speechless. Sendler of Lobinden was fast becoming one of the best men she'd ever known.

"Gods, ma'am, yer back! Sit, sit 'ere." He pushed some fishing wire off the table and offered her a seat in the shack's lone rickety chair. "Heard you left with the Scoai'tael—bad business, ma'am, if I say so meself."

"Sendler, I need your help. No time to explain."

The gap-toothed smile faltered and the craftsman nodded earnestly. "What you needing? I see you still got the bow."

"For which I'm eternally grateful," she replied quickly. "Sendler—my horse. She's in the forest, not far from here. She's dying. Possibly already dead."

Rusa leaned against the back of the chair for support, these last words hitting her like a blow to the stomach. The craftsman gave her a blank stare causing her to cry out in frustration.

"Is there anyway we can transport the horse here?"

Sendler's eyes darted around furiously, his jaw slack. Rusa gripped the frame until her knuckles turned white.

" _Please help!_ "

"Seherim," he whispered and shuffled past her.

"Who?"

"We'll not be able to get the horse 'ere—too much weight. If the creature lives your best bet is to send a healer—one good in magical 'erbs and plants and creatures."

Sendler moved with such efficiency now that Rusa almost wrapped her arms around his frail frame in appreciation.

"Seherim's elvish…" he trailed off and Rusa remembered as if it were yesterday. The first time she'd met Cedric on the observation deck and the conversation she'd overheard between he and another elf. Something about a 'Moril'?

She watched from the doorway as Sendler trudged along to a shack not far from his. _Better to let him handle this_ , she thought and jumped when, even in the dark, she felt Seherim's gaze on her. She looked on as the elf bent down slightly to better hear the old man flailing his arms around though speaking in hushed whispers. Rusa noticed the silhouette of a blanketed baby in Seherim's arms. And then they were pacing towards her.

"Sendler tells me of your troubles."

It was the first time she'd taken note of the elf's appearance. So used to Scoia'tael was she that the heavy, patterned robe and sash with the high-frilled collar and cravat seemed so out of place, not only in Lobinden but in the whole of the Northern Kingdoms. Along with the eye-patch, Seherim reminded her of the infamous Skellige pirates she'd read of in stories.

"Speak, girl, do not be afraid."

"My horse lay dying in the forest not far from here. Her leg broken, wounded deeply from a spear—"

"What business have you in Flotsam's forest?" Seherim asked. When she hesitated, he gave her a knowing look. "I know of you, Rusa Elyot. I was under the impression you'd left with the Scoia'tael."

"And now I return for reasons beyond my control," she replied, gaining confidence in the face of another interrogation. Seherim studied her face, his one eye boring into hers much like Iorveth's minus the scar. Sendler scuffed along the floorboards of the shack and retrieved what looked to be a wooden splint.

"To support the leg," he gestured practically placing it in Seherim's hand. Rusa shot him a look of appreciation. Finally the elf concentrated on the splint and nodded.

"Where is the animal?"

She let out a shaky breath. "North of here. Not far. I'll show you—"

Seherim blocked her path. "She may not make it," he said with a solemn bow of the head. "If she does I will return with her to Lobinden but it is likely she won't be able to ride for some time, if at all. You cannot wait for her."

Rusa felt her facial muscles contort as she fought the urge to weep. She touched his arm as he made to leave. "Cedric..."

The elf lowered his gaze. "We found him near the waterfall."

The familiar choking sensation in the back of her throat. "Do you…do elves bury their dead?"

Seherim considered her for a long moment. It would only pain her further to know Cedric was fond of the baeg wedd. "His grave lies to the east."

Rusa slouched into the chair as he left. She'd responsibility to get back to Vergen as soon as possible. She thought of Seven suffering on her own, of whoever was left in the ruins fighting on their own, of Cedric lying somewhere off to the east, his long life at an end. She planned to visit his grave. The plan was selfish and irresponsible but once concocted could not be dislodged. It was dangerous to linger. The militia would be on the lookout for her. And she had only a few hours until sunrise. Understanding the need for silence, Sendler busied himself with a pile of rags near the bed. Rusa watched him lazily enjoying the warmth of the shack.

" _Stick to the ravines—stay away from the river."_

 _The ruins had been desecrated, the heads of the lovers decapitated, the garden itself scorched and ravaged. Two roses left, the rest torn from their beds, wilted and dead. Iorveth picked a survivor, gently unravelling the two stems that seemed to cling to each other for protection. He snapped his eye to the torches in the distance—twenty or so men stampeding towards them. They may be outnumbered but they had the forest on their side—and its nocturnal inhabitants were waking up, hungry and ready to feast. By the time the militia reached the ruins their number would have dwindled._

 _Rusa glanced at Toruviel for reassurance. "We've an advantage up here," she said serenely and drew her bow with a smile. Ele'yas was already crouched low behind a rock near the edge of the slope. Iorveth handed her the rose._

" _Keep it safe."_

 _Rusa pocketed it, jaw set in stubborn determination. "We've time to escape—all of us."_

" _We've the advantage up here," he reiterated, his tone cold and detached. Meaning_ we'll keep them at bay whilst you escape _. Rusa's eyes started to sting. It wasn't right!_

 _She peered over his shoulder at the oncoming mass and went for her bow. Iorveth grabbed her throat and squeezed until a strangled noise escaped her lips. "Do as I say."_

" _You're—!" She dug her fingernails into his wrist, clawing his skin as he stared back unmoved. "…Breathe...!"_

 _As the colour rose to her cheeks Iorveth let go with a rough shove for good measure. She needed to leave—now. Rusa regained her footing and threw Toruviel one last look before rushing down the hill. She did not look at Iorveth. She did not look back._

"Is not smart to wait around 'ere, ma'am."

Sendler's voice drifted into her thoughts. She looked up at him with a dazed expression before realising she'd momentarily lapsed into something akin to sleep. The memory was real, though, disturbingly so. She'd left them. Jolted by the reminder she rummaged through her satchel and felt the soft petals under her fingertips. She needed to get to Vergen before it wilted. She made an educated guess that it would be approximately three days until the rose lost potency.

"Sendler." The craftsman looked up eagerly causing Rusa to smile. It felt foreign on her lips after the last few days. She peaked out from behind the curtains at the small vessel on the riverbank. "I must ask of you one last favour."

"As you say," he replied warily.

"I must return to Vergen as soon as possible and I'm without a horse."

"Ain't no 'orses to spare round 'ere, ma'am."

Rusa gave a curt nod and drew back from the dusty window. "I've desperate need of transport."

Sendler was gawking at her. Clearly, he wasn't getting the hint. She flicked her head in the direction of the riverbank, the little fishing boat sitting there with a patched blanket for a sail. Realisation dawned on his face and he shook his head emphatically.

"No, no…No, that's me own. Can't lend you that, I'm 'fraid."

He scuffled over to a chipped cupboard and threw himself into the task of reorganising its contents. Rusa considered it best to let it go—by which she intended to commandeer the vessel without Sendler noticing. The man hadn't a clue as to the importance of her task. She listened as he started whistling some inane tune and took to wiping his 'glassware' with a dirty cloth. The guilt was overwhelming when he looked up at her with a smile, his innate selflessness believing the conversation to be over—believing Rusa to be just as selfless. In that moment, the fate of Vergen resting on her shoulders (crumpled in the bottom of her satchel), she chastised her stubborn conscience. Perhaps there was another way; one that didn't involve destroying someone's livelihood.

She peaked around the curtain. Not long till sunrise. In the pit of her stomach dwelt a discomfort, one she blamed on the situation overall but knew better. Cedric's grave. She needed to go, urged on by some unseen force that compelled her to visit him one last time. For closure? Who could tell in a time like this? Rusa scrambled to her feet, acutely aware of this race against time all but Lobinden seemed victim to. It would hit this sleepy village soon enough, whatever 'it' was. Henselt, Radovid, Nilfgaard…Lobinden would suffer like the rest. For now, however, the village slept and Rusa embraced a surprised Sendler before exiting the shack.

Travelling east, she found what she assumed to be Cedric's 'grave'. Unlike the headstones of humans, there rested a stone with an inscription etched upon its surface, elegant lines dancing in between veins of dimeritium ore. Rusa traced a finger along the markings, the warm bluish glow of the dimeritium comforting as she tried to interpret the Elder Speech.

 _Va'esse deireádh aep eigean, va'esse eigh faidh'ar..._

"Something ends, something begins." She tensed as Ele'yas appeared from the undergrowth. He smiled at her apprehension. "The poetics are inevitably lost in translation to common tongue."

Rusa splayed her fingers over the stone, soaking up its warmth before standing to face him. The elf stood a few paces off, streaks of blood dripping from his skin and clothing. A sword hung limp in one hand whilst the other pressed against his stomach. Clumps of dark hair fell matted across his forehead knotted in sweat and dirt.

Suspicion mounting, Rusa spoke. "Where are the others?"

Ele'yas licked his lips, a sash of red scarlet across clammy skin. Red from the blood, she couldn't tell. His eyes brightened momentarily in some deranged procession of facial spasms before closing. Something shifted in the air around them. She _felt_ it physically, as if the atmosphere had thickened somehow, ominous and stifling. Her body started tingling, the peculiar sensation a warning of something still unknown. Cedric's stone humming faintly…or was this fanciful imagination?

"Speak!"

Ele'yas stared at her under heavy lids. "Dead."

"You lie," Rusa spat, unable to hide the telltale break.

"An accusation from the lips of a coward," he hissed with equal venom. They were beyond contempt now. Rusa felt the hatred dissolve into nothingness. Standing here, opposite this elf she'd never trusted to begin with, she felt nothing. She needed no evidence. He stood before her, a liar and traitor to his own people.

"How did you escape?"

"Much like you. Although I remained until the end." He took a step forward, breaking the stalemate, and smirked when her hand flew to a dagger. She unsheathed it and levelled it between them. And then, with the crudest 'Xin'trean dh'oine filth' she could conjure up, gave him a patronising smile.

"One more step and I'll cut your fucking balls off—assuming you have any."

Despite his anger, Ele'yas was brought up short. Pride mingled with disgust at this lowly creature in front of him; he'd take pleasure in ripping that coarse tongue to shreds.

"Iorveth and Toruviel—you will tell me where they are."

"I imagine their bodies have been taken to Flotsam's main square," he said amiably, his blatant disregard causing Rusa's hair to stand on end. "As proof, you understand."

She'd heard enough. Against her will she pictured the bodies slumped over a cart rambling towards the scaffolds. Iorveth and Toruviel—the Scoia'tael's last hopes. Disgusted that the elf before her still drew breath, she dropped the dagger and went for her bow, arrow tip trained on his skull. "You need to die."

In a flash of movement she found herself firing into the bushes to her right. On hearing the thud of a collapsed militiaman she aimed her confusion at Ele'yas who simply folded his arms with a cold smile. Another rustle from the bushes and the storming of boots. She charged at the elf.

"What have you _done_?!"

An armoured hand caught her by the waist and threw her to the ground. She scrambled to her feet as three men formed a circle, a fourth nudging the dead soldier with the tip of his boot. She caught a glimpse of Ele'yas—smile faltering but only slightly—before a rough hessian sack smothered her sight and tightened around her neck. She flailed an arm around for support only to have both yanked behind her and tied at an angle that made her shoulders ache. These men, she thought in her panic, Flotsam's militia—but who _were_ they? Who did they belong to now? In a rush of limbs and orders, she aimed her sight on where she presumed the elf lingered, gloating in the glory of his betrayal.

"You really think they'll let you live?!"

Quickly silenced by a blow to the back of the head, Rusa fought to steady her vision. With nothing but darkness for a guide she gave up the struggle and allowed herself to be dragged through Flotsam's gate, the creak of its iron hinges mocking her return.

* * *

How many hours passed, she hadn't a clue. Discarded like a piece of trash inside a tiny cell with only a tired candle for company, she assumed she resided in the basement of the old Commandant's residence. Or was the basement the kitchen? Her mind flashed back to Roche's diagrams. She should have paid more attention.

"You were supposed to…" A chesty cough sounded to her right. Rusa pressed her face between the bars and met Toruviel's bloodied face, her eyes heavily bruised but stern. "You were to return—" she spluttered and collapsed onto her elbow. Rusa turned around and pushed her hands into the other cell only for the elf to slump even further away. "To Vergen. The rose—I cannot sense it."

Rusa scanned the cell and slapped her sides in a panic. "Shit." She noticed the contents of her satchel spilt across a small wooden table on the other side of the room. " _Shit._ "

Toruviel followed her gaze. She let slip a soft whimper and Rusa reached for her in consolation. The elf fixed her with a vacant stare before grazing her limp fingers across the offered hand, swollen knuckles restricting her movement. It seemed whoever tortured her saw no need of shackles anymore. A ghost of a smile settled on trembling lips. "All is not lost," she whispered and Rusa struggled to hear the usual spark of confidence. In an effort to explain herself Rusa told her everything—Sev, Sendler and Seherim, Ele'yas. On hearing the elf's name Toruviel's eyes fluttered closed.

"He is a lost soul."

Footsteps in the distance caused Rusa to pick up the pace. "Iorveth—where is he?"

The door creaked open and she looked up expectantly. Whoever it was seemed to linger on the threshold—not so heavy-footed, a servant, perhaps? Rusa rammed her face against the cell to get a better look only to shrink back as a hulking silhouette sauntered into the room. The sole source of light in the room extinguished when he hauled an assortment of weapons onto the table with a laboured grunt. She brought her knees to her chest and peaked at Toruviel under heavy lids that dared not look up. The elf was lying face first on the ground. Rusa inhaled sharply and observed the almost imperceptible rising of the elf's back. It was all she could do to once again reach for those swollen fingers, lifeless and icy to the touch. And that pessimistic voice in her head— _she's dying._ The long life of another Aen Seidhe meets its end at the hands of some scum in a basement dungeon.

"She needs water!"

The man relit the candle and leered at the two of them. Rusa recoiled as a wad of phlegm flew towards her and dangled loosely from one of the bars. The second aimed at Toruviel found its mark and Rusa looked away, eyes burning, as it settled in the elf's hair. Finally, she chanced a glance at the creature currently arranging his weapons, gently, almost lovingly laying them out on the table. She flexed her fingers nervously whilst observing the array—knives, rope, some kind of garrotte, a spiked club. Her mind raced to the most peculiar corners: who was even in charge here? Temeria? Or was Flotsam considered a lost cause and left to the mercy of bandits? No, Lobinden was still breathing and Sendler was alive and well, for want of a better word. And Roche told her of Flotsam's importance in terms of territory. Surely, it would not be allowed to become some rogue state? Wanted by all the realms—"Stuck in the middle like a candle up the arse." Rusa squeezed her eyes shut. She considered what he'd do in this situation and then berated herself. _The bastard would be on the other side of the bars!_ But it was comforting in its way. If he _were_ the one behind bars he'd not give a fuck as to the consequences.

"I've 'ad a play with your little friend, 'ere." The guard held a knife to the candle and regarded it fondly. He was a large, grizzly bear of a man seemingly without a neck. He pointed the knife in Rusa's direction. "Been waitin' for little sleepin' beauty to wake up otherwise it ain't no fun."

Rusa licked her lips, the saliva stinging between the cracks. "Isn't any," she corrected.

The man was literally frothing at the prospect of another chance to maim, chomping at the bit like some savage mule. He bared his busted teeth in a twisted smile then fell vacant. "Wha's tha'?

"Otherwise it isn't any fun."

He tongued a pocked cheek and nodded as he grabbed the club, fingers bouncing merrily off its spikes. "See this 'ere? Brand new, it is." It was his turn to lick his lips. "Fancy 'elping me break it in?"

Rusa narrowed her eyes at the weapon then sat back on her haunches. "I'm going to have to respectfully decline." Toruviel stirred slightly and caught her eye. The guard brought up another chunk of phlegm and chuckled. He ran a finger along a deep scar traversing all three chins.

"This one—" he poked a stubby thumb at Toruviel—"it 'ad fire, too. I like 'em most when they play 'ard to get."

Rusa gnawed the inside of her cheek. _It_.

"Why don't you shove that club up your arse?" She lifted the corners of her mouth. "Break it in?"

At which point the guard threw the club aside and wrung his hands in delight. "The men 'ave a sayin'," he said removing his gloves. Rusa pressed her back to the wall. Leather squeaked as he bent down in front of her and wriggled his fingers. "Bare 'ands for a bitch."

The force of the blow was enough to make Rusa choke on the bile pooling in her throat. He fumbled with her chopped hair as he dragged her from the cell. She gasped when he stumbled and dug a knee into her stomach. In a flurry of hands Rusa caught sight of Toruviel, hand stretched beyond the bar and fastened onto the guard's ankle. He shook her off with a sickening snap and wrapped his hands around Rusa's throat.

"Not the normal routine, but I isn't complainin'."

Rusa struggled with his weight and felt her eyes bulge at the pressure. Her legs flailed about causing her to cry out as a sharp pain shot up her foot. She wrapped the other around the handle of the club lodged in her skin and managed to fling it off to the side. The guard's face blurry above her—red and sweaty, a deranged boar in heat—she stuck her thumbs into the drooping eyelids and gritted her teeth as he let out a scream so violent, so horrifically guttural that she almost let go. A flash of motion to her right and the screaming ground to a halt. She unhooked her fingers as his hands loosened. His breath caught in his throat and he stared down at her, stunned, before rolling to his side. He lay there, wheezing, the club protruding from between shuddering shoulder blades. Rusa scampered over to Toruviel who was hunched against a wall with a key dangling from her fingers. She was badly wounded but tended to Rusa who brushed her aside and demanded she sit and rest. The guard let out a muffled groan, his mouth firmly against the cobblestones. Rusa snapped her eyes to him in disgust.

"'Ain't complaining'," she muttered and tensed when voices sounded from the corridor. Amidst them all a resounding, indomitable voice ordering its lackeys to "Leave the elf." Rusa panicked as Toruviel fell motionless again. Unable to make a decision before the door swung open, she dropped to her knees and sheltered her awkwardly, hands still bound behind her back. The men clamoured inside and Rusa watched in satisfaction as they looked from her to the moaning hulk of bloated mass on the floor. One of them managed to disengage from the surprise and charged forward, fist raised. Rusa shielded Toruviel as best she could.

"Come now, Vant." That voice. Rusa looked up to see a bald man seemingly built into his armour with a firm grip on his soldier's wrist. The light from the corridor filtered through the bodies and struck the Temerian crest on his breastplate. His face was stern and showed signs of aging despite clearly being under fifty. Lined, hazel eyes studied the scene before him—two women huddled together distanced from the beast in the corner. He noticed the club lodged in his back and flicked his head to one of the men who leapt forward and carefully removed it. The guard remained still, though he was breathing. Rusa could hear the telltale wheeze as air struggled to escape. She cupped Toruviel's cheeks before lifting her eyes to the men. Subduing a spasm of surprise on seeing who led them, she asked for some water. It came out as a whisper. The leader considered for a moment and gave a dismissive nod.

"Water for the elf. Bring the woman upstairs."

He looked on impassively as she tried to fight off the first man. Receiving a kick to the stomach she doubled over and watched him haul Toruviel over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and dump her back in the cell. Another brave warrior smacked Rusa's cheek so hard it bled and only an order from above stopped the blows from continuing.

She was tied to a chair in the main room of the third floor—the lion's den. But it wasn't the old Commandant prowling around her. The man turned a chair around and straddled it, arms hanging casually across the back. There was nothing casual about his expression though. The Temerian crest mocked her in its familiarity.

"My name is John Natalis. And you have very unfortunate timing."

Rusa bit back a grimace. Natalis picked up on it immediately. "You're aware of your face plastered across Flotsam's walls, are you not?

"I know who you are," she whispered and he brought a hand to his ear. Clearing her throat, she repeated, "I know who you—"

"As most do," he interrupted with an indifference that infuriated her. "A small, seemingly insignificant woman conspiring with the Scoia'tael. Not so insignificant, after all." Natalis looked to his men who added the necessary laughter. The room was stuffy and a pungent odour of onion and sweat seemed to seep from the walls—a room of shits, sleeps and wanks.

"Since arriving here in Flotsam, I've learnt three things. The first is that this place is a grimy shithole—" more chuckles from the corner—"the second is that the witcher who stands accused of the murder of King Foltest left these forests with the Scoia'tael. The third, and I find this to be most intriguing, a woman by the name of Rusa Elyot arrived here with the witcher and the Blue Stripes, but has since returned with the most sought after terrorist in the Northern realms."

Rusa frowned and averted her eyes. Natalis had that same scrutinizing glare.

"I agree with the first," she mumbled and cringed when he remained unmoved. "As for the second, Geralt of Rivia is innocent."

"And the third?"

"A disturbing summary, if I'm honest."

Natalis nodded and slipped into his thoughts, grazing a hand along his chin. "Of course, I cannot trust a word you say. You understand this?"

"Yes."

"First, you will tell me all you know of the witcher's role in Foltest's murder."

Rusa groaned inwardly and cut to the chase.

"The one you're after is a bald, giant of a man. Another witcher—Letho. He killed Foltest and escaped with the help of—" the truth certainly wouldn't help _her_ —two other witchers, Serris and Auckes, the three of them are working together. Geralt is innocent."

"How do you know all of this?"

In frustration, she lashed out. "I've already been thoroughly interrogated by your compatriot! He can verify everything."

Natalis's eyes darted across her features. He seemed to consider something then thought better of it. Then considered it again. "Contact with the Blue Stripes was lost five days ago."

Rusa reined in her sarcasm and waited. When he didn't continue she gave him a desperate look. "I've no idea what you want me to say."

"I think you do," he replied tersely.

She hesitated and struck a mental bargain; one she knew would sound ludicrous when spoken out loud. "I've already given you crucial information about the kingslayer. I'll tell you what I know of the Blue Stripes in exchange for a guarantee."

Natalis seemed to weigh her words carefully before chuckling. The men behind visibly slouched and joined in with their commander. His face turned grim and hard. "You're in no position to bargain."

She'd heard that before, of course, and was banking on the fact that it worked the last time. Although the man in front of her was a different sort altogether. Her stomach tightened and she felt her fingers grapple against clammy palms.

"Clearly, you were informed of Commandant Loredo's disposal. I assume this is the last you heard from Vernon Roche."

He gave a reluctant nod and gave little in return. "We are currently resecuring Flotsam as a Temerian outpost."

"Free Toruviel and I'll tell you where he is."

In a lingering pause that seemed to detach her from herself, Rusa caught sight of pink petals on the sideboard. So delicate and undeserving of its fate; how did they know to separate it from the rest of the contents in her satchel? Natalis seemed oblivious to her surprise. One of the guards leaned over him and gave a 'yes, sir' before disappearing downstairs.

"You've my word," the commander said. "Now, continue."

Rusa was disbelieving. He seemed honourable enough in his way but she'd learnt to be skeptical of Temerians. "Just like that?"

He swatted the question away like some pestering fly. "I'm losing my patience."

"The Blue Stripes travelled to King Henselt's camp on the outskirts of Vergen."

Natalis gave a soft 'hmm' before ordering the other guard from the room. He drew back from the chair and paced over to the sideboard. Rusa stiffened when his hand hovered over the rose only to grab a decanter and pour himself some wine. He held up another cup and looked at her.

"No…thank you," she said, thoroughly disarmed. This man knew she was in league with the Scoia'tael, a reminder of which heard her asking, "What has become of Iorveth?"

Natalis took another sip and smiled. "He still lives."

"Roche is convinced Henselt's behind the killing of your king." She understood the little game they were playing—tit-for-tat.

"And if Roche is correct, Henselt's intentions are to destroy Vergen then sweep through a weakened Temeria, yes?"

Rusa gave him an odd look. "How am I to know?

Natalis chuckled and set his glass on the table. "Forgive me, you seem to consider yourself an expert on political matters. Never mind that for now. We must talk about you." He settled into his chair. "Who is Rusa Elyot?"

Choosing her words carefully, she replied, "No one of significance."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong. Ally yourself with the Scoia'tael and you become of great significance." He studied her as if she were a specimen in a jar. "You're no Temerian…" he trailed off and Rusa, in her panic, shook her head emphatically. As if being a 'foreigner' and 'unaware' of the tensions between Northerners and Scoia'tael would somehow see her survive this ordeal. It was as foolish as it sounded.

"No?" he asked, almost amiably. Rusa hesitated and withdrew an uneasy smile on seeing his eyes darken. The atmosphere in the room shifted. He'd got the information. It was predator and prey once again. "It matters not. Colluding with the Scoia'tael will see your neck in a noose before the week's end."

In contrast to his composure Rusa cried out, infuriated by the injustice of it all. "I know who you are, John Natalis, because I served at Brenna under the Cintran Volunteers—I served _you_!"

Surprise flickered across his face but it changed nothing. Instead, he threw the chair aside and bore down on her with an accusing finger. "And now you work for those who wished you dead."

Her arms were chafing from the rope. "I don't work _for_ anyone! I'm trying to stay alive, it's really very simple."

"Spoken by one without loyalty, integrity and valour. It shames me to know your kind served the Northern cause, let alone survived."

"Iorveth's Scoia'tael fight for a free Vergen! They vow to defend it with their lives," she shouted but quickly fell silent. He wasn't willing to listen. And she wasn't willing to risk him hearing the crack in her voice as she pretended his words didn't hurt to an unbearable degree.

"You'll be an example to all," Natalis muttered, untying the rope. He made sure to keep her hands bound as he called for one of his men. When no one answered he gave her a warning look and paced to the door. Taking advantage of the distraction Rusa crept to the sideboard and pocketed the rose. If Natalis noticed it gone he'd order her killed. In light of her current situation, it made little difference.

It was raining heavily when they reached Flotsam's main square. Rusa could barely make out two bodies hanging from the scaffold and if her hands weren't tied she'd give them a salute, for they shared the same fate no matter how different their lives. She glanced up at Natalis conferring with two of his men then back to the swaying silhouettes. She was to join them soon enough. The ape who had smacked her before in the basement yanked her hands with a self-satisfied 'hmph' and she recoiled as he held her against him. She remembered standing in this exact same place held by another ingrate as the rest pummelled poor Ylvan close to death. She took in her surroundings. What better place to meet a grim death than in an even grimmer environment.

One of the men Natalis had been speaking with sauntered over. Under the balaclava were watery eyes and a red bulbous nose that simply by looking at it made Rusa want to sneeze. "A wagon with full guard awaits outside the gates," he said to the guard behind her and she stared back and forth between them in confusion. She was compelled to move and stumbled over a loose cobble.

"Wait," she cried and shuffled up to Natalis. "What's going on?"

The commander regarded her with disdain and sneered, "What example will you make if hung in Flotsam?" Rusa's frown deepened and she gave him a beseeching look. Natalis was momentarily distracted then smiled and signalled to the gate. Turning, she saw the broken form of Toruviel leaning against a post while a guard cut the bonds at her feet. Lurking off to the side was the beast from the basement standing hunched with a hand on his back. Rusa felt sick.

"What's the meaning of this?" she demanded and Natalis raised an eyebrow.

"I gave you my word the elf would be freed." He held up a hand and the guard nudged Toruviel through the gate. She immediately fell to her knees and Rusa lurched forward violently.

"You said you'd let her go!"

"And I am," he replied with a calmness that shook Rusa to the core. "The men saw fit to add an extra clause to our little agreement."

Toruviel was no longer at the gate. The beast shot Natalis a look across the courtyard and the commander gave a small nod. He disappeared into the forest.

"A little bit of justice, don't you agree?" said the commander and chuckled at the dazed expression plastered across the face of his prisoner. Rusa stared back at him, speechless, horrified, numb. "If the elf survives, she's free to go." A reassuring hand sat heavy on her shoulder. She wanted to tear through its flesh.

Natalis gave her one last condescending pat. "Don't concern yourself—you've certainly got bigger things to worry about. Ever been to the Royal Palace?"

Rusa swallowed the thought of a wounded Toruviel being hunted to death and blinked. "What?"

There was no more time for pointless jests. Natalis leaned closer to her with a grave expression. "You're to hang at Vizima."

Before she had time to react the guard threw her over his shoulder and laughed as a strangled breath escaped her lips in a comical wheeze. He moved with jerky strides towards the gates. Rusa lifted her head to the gallows. Ele'yas's bloated, bloodied face gazed back at her, lifeless eyes penetrating hers accusingly. She screwed her eyes shut as if to keep him at bay.

A barred wagon with full guard did indeed await her and she was unceremoniously tossed into the back. Before the canvas fell down she was shackled at the ankles. The men laughed and traded pleasantries as Rusa groped around in the darkness. She drew back when her fingers connected with something solid. With tentative hands she met frayed material and traced over the unknown form. Hardening her touch she made out the shape of a body and moved her hands upward towards what she presumed to be the head. As she grazed across smooth, cold skin she had to refrain from crying out when she felt the familiar cloth. She lightly traced the jagged scar running to the upper lip and froze when Iorveth stirred beneath her. Rusa collapsed next to him with an aching sigh of relief.

"I'm going to die," she said. "I didn't even get to visit Kovir."

He shifted uncomfortably and she made to help him move, fumbling for the outline of his arm. Iorveth shrugged her off though not unkindly. "You've visited Flotsam twice," he drawled. Rusa bit back a smile and flinched as her lips cracked.

"I'm a lucky woman," she remarked and felt his eye trained on her. Even in the dark it pierced through hers with that intensity peculiar to him. She lowered her gaze.

"They chased Toruviel into the forest," she said softly and tuned into his steady breathing. "If she can survive he said… She's wounded and bleeding and I couldn't… She won't outrun him."

Rusa let the tears fall as she sank into her hands. It was strangely comforting as the warmth trickled down her numbed cheeks. "Ele'yas is dead." She couldn't bear to speak the truth of his betrayal.

"I've yet to know someone more resourceful than Toruviel," Iorveth replied and his voice turned cold. "Ele'yas met his fate."

Rusa apologised and told him _she_ should be comforting _him_. She thought of Toruviel crawling along the forest floor in desperation and fought to stop the onslaught of tears. "They're your men, after all."

"You are young, Rusa Elyot."

The silence was more than she could bear. "I've failed everyone," she whispered.

"As have I."

The wagon jerked forward and Rusa fell into a fitful sleep. Warped images of Toruviel scattered throughout her dreams, the hulking mass leering over her, his face transforming into Ele'yas's who would snarl and show his teeth before succumbing to a bluish hue. Iorveth and Natalis standing in the courtyard staring over her shoulder at Roche who leant against a wall, arms folded, chaperon off, much to her surprise, though when she awoke she'd not remember a thing.

Iorveth sat up—a challenge, to say the least—and glanced at the shivering frame struggling with whatever troubled her. There was nothing to warm her with and he couldn't recall the last time he'd felt so useless. He hit his head against the bars ignoring the pain as it raced down his spine. _She_ had failed no one. He'd failed his men. He'd failed Saskia. His heart sped up and calmed when he focused on the dh'oine curled up beside him. There was only one failure in this wagon and she wasn't it. He could see her clearly, of course, his eyes easily attuned to the darkness and noted, with surprise, that somewhere along the line she'd decided to discard half a head of hair. She was the strangest looking creature. When she came to he almost laughed at how dishevelled she was, padding around the floor for her bearings and narrowing her eyes at the wall in a futile attempt to make out his form. He watched her flounder for a little longer.

"To your right," he muttered and she visibly jumped.

"Don't _do_ that!" She slapped the air and collapsed again with a huff. "How long was I asleep?"

"Not long."

"You should get some rest."

"No need."

"Fine."

The silence stretched on until Rusa broke it, as he expected.

"Iorveth, I'm so sorry." She fumbled for the rose and found his hand, also shackled. They remained still, her hand resting in his, before he ran a finger over the petals and gently pushed it back. Rusa nodded and wiped her cheeks with an awkward shrug. "For Saskia."

* * *

A/N: To everyone reading, reviewing, following, favouriting - thank you, it truly means a lot.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N - Hi guys. Had a bit of trouble uploading this chapter so hopefully it turns out alright in terms of formatting. I apologise for including a rather jarring "flashback/end flashback" comment but if you're anything like me, it's preferable to reading italics. Thanks very much for your reviews/faves/follows!

Disclaimer - All disclaimed and the like.

* * *

The wagon came to a stop in Vizima's marketplace.

"Iorveth captured at last!"

"Death to the Squirrels!"

"'ang the bastard!"

Rusa widened her eyes at the elf lounging beside her, his silhouette bathed in the dull light sneaking through a tear in the canvas. "This is not funny." Iorveth's lips twitched on hearing the shrill voice of an elderly woman.

"Cut the Cintran bitch!"

Rusa's eyebrows shot up. "By the gods"—she glared at Iorveth—"I thought Flotsam lacked manners."

"Don't concern yourself," he replied. "Knowing how much you dh'oine relish in public spectacle, this will drag on for several days, at least."

"That does concern me," she snapped. "That concerns me a great deal." The elderly voice pierced through the crowd again. Rusa pressed her mouth to the canvas slit. "Skulk back to your cauldron, you—ugh!" A fist connected with her nose and she toppled backwards, Iorveth grunting on impact. She looked up at him apologetically.

"Is it bleeding?"

"No."

"I think it's bleeding."

He assured her it wasn't and let her lie against him a few moments longer before shifting his weight to the side. Rusa didn't even notice and curled into a ball on the floor. Delirious, thirsty, hungry…delirious. They'd been confined to the wagon for four days with minimal food or water. Occasionally one of the guards threw in a lump of dry bread. When Rusa requested some more water so as to not die of asphyxiation she received a fresh wad of phlegm in her direction. Accustomed to this response, she dodged the projectile by falling limp and collapsing to the floor. A clumsy-looking tactic, Iorveth noted, but it worked.

He recalled the first time she'd demanded to be let out so she could relieve herself. Somewhere near Ellander. A guard handed her a bucket and she glared at it for an hour before turning to him, face bright red despite the darkness.

 ***Flashback***

"Sorry."

"What?"

"My trousers..."

She heard him exhale sharply through the nose before turning towards her. Rusa sat back on her knees, mortified as he untangled the laces around her hips. He struggled to hook his fingers into the belt loops then gave a rough tug. The sound of leather grazing against skin was enough to make her bite down on the inside of her cheek. She shot the elf a sharp look.

"I can hear you smirking." After an awkward pause, "Are you so unaffected?" When he didn't reply, she mused, "I assume you've been on the receiving end of this for many years."

"Many years," he drawled and readjusted her belt.

Rusa hesitated then tested the waters. "Say… one-hundred?"

Iorveth supposed if this was to be their end, he could indulge her. "Higher."

"Below three-hundred?"

She received a tired 'hmm' and pressed on. "Two-hundred and twenty."

"Lower."

"Two-hundred?"

"Give or take."

"You don't remember?"

She received an incredulous stare. "Would you?"

Rusa blushed. "I suppose if I reached over a hundred, I'd lose count."

"When," Iorveth muttered, struggling to mask his contempt. "When you reach a hundred. Your blood will see to that—" he couldn't help but smirk—"assuming you don't get yourself killed."

Well, that was already being seen to. She brushed the thought aside. Images of her mother appeared like a vision. Body straining, face smeared with sweat and blood and soot, her pleading look, her scolding voice and then Brenna. Rusa held back the familiar sting and busied herself with steering the bucket into the furthest corner.

"You understood me in the ruins," he continued and compressed his lips when she threw a rueful grin in his direction.

"Ayd f'haeil moen Hirjeth taenverde—I understood."

"Words taught by your mother, no doubt."

Rusa clenched her jaw and averted her gaze. "Spoken during the massacre." She drew in a shaky breath to steady herself. "Moments before our parting."

Iorveth sensed her agitation but probed further. "She died a hero to you, then?"

"Defending me against those you fought alongside with, yes."

The air between them crackled in anticipation. The sound of chinking armour caused Rusa to shirk back. Iorveth was silent, seemingly fallen into deep contemplation. She wondered what he was thinking—regret? Guilt? Despite her frustration, silence in this pitiful dungeon was worse than awkward conversation.

"Back in Flotsam you mentioned your mother." She paused, unsure how to approach the subject. It dawned on her then that Iorveth was a complete stranger and always would be, the elf being as penetrable as a siege tower. Knowing his age was an achievement in itself. It was difficult engaging someone contemptuous of idle conversation in exactly that. Rusa changed tack. "Where were you born?"

After a while, he mumbled something about the Blue Mountains and diverted her attention by mentioning his visiting Cintra when it was an established elven city. To his surprise, Rusa perked up and with an encouraging smile said, "I've only read of it in the histories. Could you describe it a little, please?"

In that moment, he perceived her differently. Evidence of her youth plastered across her face and manifested itself in her eagerness to learn. Despite the hatred, so ingrained and securely fastened, this dh'oine was young and—he suppressed a sneer—innocent in her way. Thrown into something much larger than herself but bearing the brunt of it surprisingly well. Complaining—always complaining but carrying on nevertheless. She'd be no more than thirty years of age and wasn't responsible for the sacking of elven cities, wasn't personally accountable for the sins of humans. The seething anger found its way through the cracks in his armour. To discuss Xin'trea—ancient, beautiful, a shadow of its former self—with this petty dh'oine was beyond degrading. But as the rage surfaced, it subsided. He acknowledged with great reluctance her singular ability to undermine emotions he truly thought embedded. There was no joy in these continuing revelations. Neither was there any hatred.

"Did you have a Xin'trean tea party?"

"A fate far worse than the present, I imagine," Iorveth drawled.

"I can't disagree," replied Rusa, grinning before falling serious. "Please. What was it like?"

"You shut up in there!"

Rusa swivelled in the guard's general direction. "Fuck _off_!" Turning to Iorveth, she gave a curt nod. "You were saying."

The elf was sober when he said, "Xin'trea was the jewel of the Continent. All were free to travel there and marvel at its beauty—" he hesitated, revolted by the thought that he even considered regaling this dh'oine with tales of beauty so beyond her understanding—"A class system amongst elves did not exist until humans arrived. Now we are split—those residing in Dol Blathana viewing the Scoia'tael with disdain, city elves downtrodden by dh'oine, their perspectives towards the Scoia'tael tarnished and manipulated by the hatred spewing from the mouths of ignorant peasants and barbaric nobles…"

Rusa, for her part, broached the subject from a different angle. "Mother was often the victim of racist taunts. From fellow elves. You are certainly not free of prejudice."

Iorveth turned on her in disbelief. "Prejudice developed and maintained by _your_ fellow humans."

She didn't miss the double-meaning. Roche was at the forefront of both their minds. Rusa shuffled uncomfortably and slumped against the wall. This conversation certainly deteriorated quickly. She felt a headache niggling at the base of her skull.

"How did you get your scar?"

Once said, it couldn't be retracted. She berated herself for assuming any intimacy between them beyond him helping with her trousers. Other questions seemed neutral enough but this one—the words burnt on the tip of her tongue. This one was personal. During the suspended silence she pretended she'd said nothing at all.

"Not how you might suspect."

Rusa frowned. "I've no idea what to suspect. Human? Creature?"

Iorveth shot her an impatient look. "Neither."

"Oh. Surely not by the hands of a dwarf?"

She pleaded to whoever would listen that Zoltan would never find out and charge her with blasphemy. An image formed of the dwarf red-faced and blustering waving an axe in one hand, spilling a tankard of mead in the other, whilst Dandelion soothed him with pleasantries to no avail.

As if reading her thoughts, Iorveth scoffed."Not a dwarf, I assure you."

Giddy from visions of an outraged Zoltan, Rusa gasped, "A jilted lover?"

The elf didn't miss a beat. "Love is for fairy tales, Rusa Elyot. You'd be wise to understand that."

The defensive tone knocked Rusa off balance. Immediately, she pushed Saskia to the back of her mind. Reminding Iorveth of his greatest failure was something she couldn't bring herself to do. Why bother? He was undoubtedly plagued by such thoughts.

"So, an elf?" she asked, treading lightly.

Pain flashed across his face before it reverted to stone. "Scoia'tael."

Rusa's stomach lurched. This was dangerous territory. Her curiosity was getting the better of her and she knew it. She settled with an "I see" and waited with the hope he'd continue, which he did. They truly must be coming to the end of their respective lives if Iorveth was willing to speak of such things.

"Yaevinn," he said, watching Rusa's reaction. "He had big dreams and desperately wanted me to share them. Asked the same of Geralt some time ago." Mention of the witcher's name was like a knife to the gut. The familiarity of it in such depressing circumstances was almost hurtful.

"Geralt—did he find Yaevinn's reasons just?"

"Yes." Iorveth glanced at the ceiling and exhaled sharply through his nose. "Because they are. But they're equally unrealistic. Yaevinn saw combat and killing as poetry. Whereas war is prose, with no place for beauty."

Rusa took time to digest this. It was a rather poetic statement in itself, ironically.

"In terms of the Scoia'tael's future, we did not agree." Iorveth shifted so his scar was illuminated by the small shard of light. "There was an altercation."

Rusa nodded and said quietly, "So the Scoia'tael are also divided?"

"We do not hold grudges. That is a human trait," he replied with a vagueness that signalled the conversation to be over.

 ***End Flashback***

"Cut the Cintran bitch," came a singsong voice and Iorveth flexed his fingers in agitation. Jolted from the memory, he stared at the woman lying face down on the floor. She lifted her cheek and peered up at him with a small smile. "Catchy, isn't it?"

He made a noncommittal noise. Denied of food and water for much longer and the dh'oine was going to lose her mind. Worse still, he'd be on the receiving end of it. As if on cue, the canvas drew up and a chunk of bread tumbled across the floor. Curious dh'oine scrambled to get a peak at the prisoners before the guard rearranged the canvas, much to the anger of the audience.

Rusa shifted onto her side and considered the offering. "Ah, bread. I hear it's delicious with WATER."

A guard bashed a club across the bars with a recommendation that she drink from the bucket. Without warning dappled light seeped into the wagon. Squinting, Rusa met the onslaught of curious eyes and huddled against the bars. There was a strange lull—the calm before the storm—then the barrage of insults and phlegm and rotten vegetables. Something foul-smelling squelched against her cheek and she tightened her lips as the juice trickled towards her mouth. Amidst the deafening cries, she stole a glance at Iorveth who seemed completely unfazed. Something hard hit her across the face and she yelped, crawling towards the elf for shelter. A guard wrapped his hand around her neck and dragged her onto the cobbles. The raucous laughter as she collapsed into a puddle made her eyes burn. When Iorveth was revealed the volume shifted. Lower, warier, a soft murmur and hushed whispers as they took in the 'most sought after terrorist in the North'. Undoubtedly the reason behind the death of many a loved one. His eye scanned the crowd, imperious and disdainful, before being led across the marketplace. Rusa made a strange sound in the back of her throat and he turned his head ever so slightly.

"Where are you taking him?"

A guard adjusting the shackles at her feet barked out a laugh. "Palace dungeons," and when he saw the look of confusion, said, "You're to be confined to the solar. New orders from Natalis. Consider yourself lucky."

A strange stinging sensation settled at the base of her spine. "Beg pardon?"

The guard holding her from behind drew up to her ear. "You deaf, bitch?"

Rusa scrunched her nose. "The piss bucket smells like roses compared to you."

A blow to the back of the head saw her collapse to a thunderous roar from the crowd. Curiosity with Iorveth had passed for now and was redirected at the Cintran woman currently gasping for air as a chain tightened around her throat.

"Ease off, Rulf."

Reluctantly, the chain loosened and Rusa was heaved to her feet. With a rough shove, Rulf led her through the crowd toward a tower on the eastern side of the square. Unsurprisingly, the sea of angry townsfolk failed to part like they did for Iorveth and she found herself unprepared for the flood of filthy hands.

"How long am I to be confined?" she asked as they neared the solar.

"As long as it takes," mumbled Rulf.

"As long as what takes?"

"The trial," he replied as if speaking to a child.

Rusa snorted. "I've already been found guilty several times over."

"Look, lady, I don't make the rules."

"And Iorveth?"

Rulf chuckled as he removed her shackles. His fingers hovered over the rope around her wrists before finally considering her too weak to be a threat. Rusa rubbed her forearms as he leaned into her ear, sour breath grazing her cheek. "The bastard will be hanged, drawn and quartered by the end of the week."

When the hinges resisted Rulf used her as a battering ram then tossed her inside. Two guards positioned in the hallway. No tiny window to escape from. She slumped into a dusty armchair and waited. For what, she'd no idea. The glass ceiling revealed it to be around dusk. Her facial muscles started to relax, unsure at first as to whether to stay guarded, slowly followed by a tingling all through her body. The armchair, uncomfortable in any other situation, became plush and inviting and she allowed herself to sink a little lower. Fighting the fatigue, she was overcome by the guilt in her knowledge that Iorveth suffered in the dungeons whilst she sat in the warmth of the solar. Her body stiffened; a reminder. Lulled into a false sense of security moments before being ripped to pieces. That wouldn't be beyond Natalis.

Rusa didn't bother opening her eyes when the door groaned in protest.

"Don't get too comfortable."

The speed in which she stumbled behind an overturned bookcase was beyond anything she thought herself able to muster. Running a trembling hand through her hair, she swallowed when the door closed with a soft, ominous click.

Roche cast a glance over his shoulder. "You've cut your hair."

Rusa eyed him warily, thankful for the piece of furniture between them. She mirrored his movements, stepping back as he stepped forward. A knot formed in her stomach as her thighs connected with the wall. He studied her a moment longer.

"You've been busy." He folded his arms and waited. Rusa's eyes darted over every inch of the room before settling on the man in front of her. Observing how he'd not changed at all in appearance since Flotsam made her feel all the more disadvantaged. She licked her lips, noting, absurdly, how Roche's gaze didn't falter.

"Come to gloat?"

A small smile crossed his lips. "I'm not one to break my word."

She flashed him an insincere smile. They were back in the dungeons of La Valette.

"I suppose I should feel flattered. The Commander of the Blue Stripes taking time to attend _my_ hanging."

Roche waved a dismissive hand and began a leisurely pace around the room. Rusa levelled a candlestick between them and he stopped, lips twitching. "One of Natalis's men informed me of Iorveth's capture along with 'some Cintran whore'"—her mouth fell open—"His words. I arrived yesterday—saw to the construction of the scaffold myself." He thumbed through a dusty tome before snapping it shut. "Had a chance to see the sights?"

She clapped a hand against her knee, flinching at the sudden pressure on her wrist. "Oh, yes! I particularly enjoyed The Wagon Floor. I received several beatings for free, as well. Your patriotism is well-founded."

Quick, erratic jabs of the candlestick accompanied her tirade. Roche took it all in, indifferent to her plight. His jaw tightened when she flailed her arms and smashed a vase with her weapon of choice. Simultaneously amused and irritated by the look of dismay on her face, he clenched his fists as she ignored him in order to pick up the shards.

Rusa threw a sheepish glance over the bookshelf. "Do you think they'll notice?"

Roche refrained from smacking her with the candlestick. "Get up." She gave a slow blink and steadied herself, one hand against the wall for support. He caught her scolding herself and said, "When did you last eat?"

"Define 'eat'," she countered.

Roche chuckled under his breath as she adopted a wary stance. She'd no idea how to act around him. Good—the bitch deserved it. He kept his gaze on her and demanded some bread and meat from one of the guards. Neither one offered any resistance.

Rusa raised an eyebrow. "You've some sway around here." He waited patiently for what followed. "Fancy living large like Vernon Roche—one can only dream!"

"Well, you've approximately—" he peered around the room thoughtfully—"seven days of dreaming left, if I'm not mistaken."

She gritted her teeth. "I'm _aware_ —"

"Which I'm not. Mistaken, that is." Roche gave her a strange look. "Choices were made."

Insides churning, Rusa regarded him coolly. "I've no regrets."

He took a seat, smiling when she refused to join him. "Then it won't alarm you to know another two thousand have joined Henselt in his effort to destroy Vergen. Perhaps you'd like to call on your fellow nobles."

Rusa blanched and dug her nails into the brick, begging the room to expand. Two thousand. The smug bastard to her left looked on amused at her flurry of facial expressions. It was a struggle drawing enough energy to conceal the swell of emotion. Turning to the wall, she took a deep breath, paused, heard the rustle of his uniform…

Choosing the armchair opposite, she placed her palms on her knees and sat upright—prim and proper compared to him lounging with an infuriating superiority. Roche rubbed his chin absently and took in her appearance. She looked like hell. She smelt even worse. His eyes trailed to her lip, a few teeth gnawing away at it as she considered her next move. She had one—he knew this. Expected it, even. Wouldn't expect anything less. The woman was a seasoned player in a game she'd no idea how to play. A warmth lodged itself in the pit of his stomach and he snapped his eyes up observing, with concern, how hers had brightened considerably. She smiled; small, tight, resisting exposure to his scrutinizing glare.

"All the more to destroy your precious Temeria."

Roche bit back his annoyance. "Been developing your skills as a battle strategist, have you?"

Rusa shrugged and retorted, "I've simply listened to those who know what they're talking about."

Behind the snark, there was a sincerity. Despite Roche's best efforts, it lodged itself in the recesses of his mind. Then, the flash of doubt. Perhaps she spoke of someone else. He sat back and steepled his fingers.

"Clearly, something in the strategy went…awry," he said smoothly.

"Did you catch your spy?"

The question threw him off guard—one of her peculiar talents he'd never quite become accustomed to. Roche regarded her as one would an exhibit—was she worth divulging the information? He observed the slight shift in her demeanour.

"You need to be careful," Rusa continued, surprising both with such intimate musings. "Henselt can't learn that you're holding a Kaedweni spy…"

Roche gave an imperceptible nod. She'd grown somehow since they parted. "That spy we caught at Loredo's? Arnolt? He's prancing around in the next world."

Mention of 'that night' hung awkwardly in the air until Rusa pressed on, "Why'd you kill him?"

"What else was I to do?"

"Back in Flotsam you said he was living proof of Henselt's conspiracy against Temeria."

Roche looked at her disbelievingly. The woman had actually listened. Visions of what came after distracted him momentarily. "I didn't plan it…" He watched her mouth curl into a small smile. "He just didn't survive the interrogation."

"Maybe you shouldn't have keelhauled him," she replied amiably.

"If he'd been cooperative, I wouldn't have had to."

A breathy laugh escaped her lips. In spite of everything—her dismal situation, the fact that the man in front in of her could strangle her without a moment's hesitation, her impending doom—in spite of it all, she laughed. "Did he spill anything interesting?"

Roche gave her a stern look. This was no laughing matter. Not that he gave a fuck about Arnolt Malliger. "He was tough but waterboarding can be incredibly effective."

Rulf entered with a tray of food and Rusa, starved and rabid, wasted no time fingering the limp slices of meat. The guard lingered between them, eyebrows raised at their familiarity, before Roche dismissed him with a sharp nod towards the door.

Rusa let out a long moan. "Truly, we take things for granted," she hummed, oblivious to the commander's gaze.

Suddenly, Roche had the urge to tell her. Everything. All that had transpired at Henselt's camp, his plan to dispose of Dethmold in order to undermine Henselt's army—he had supporters too, had found those under Henselt's banner willing to betray the bastard. The problem lay in his being denied access to the Temerian treasury. These men would only betray if rightfully compensated. Natalis's orders, apparently, though he knew it came from some uppity little shit in the Temerian court. Some wheezy noble with a pince-nez who thought it best, politically, for the man who aided the escape of the "kingslayer" to be stripped of a certain level of status. Roche didn't care. He'd the respect of every fighting man in Temeria—that's all that mattered and fuck the rest of them. His face fell into a sneer. _Nobles_.

Rusa made a strange choking noise then wiped her mouth with the back her sleeve. "Don't suppose you could wrangle some wine?" When he ignored her she said, "I don't expect an answer but have found out any information about Anaïs and Boussy? A yes or a no would be more than enough."

Roche raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why are you talking like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like a serving girl who tripped and spilled mead over the customer."

Rusa reddened. "What nonsense."

"You're a skilled strategist now," Roche reminded.

"Shut up," she snapped and busied herself with another slab of meat and bread. Rusa levelled her gaze over the rim of her cup. "I'll take that as a no."

Roche helped himself to some bread. As cordial as they seemed, the tension was stifling. He 'tsked' inwardly as Rusa started coughing up breadcrumbs. Not having eaten properly in days meant she needed to take it slow. Roche caught himself moments before reminding her of this. He wasn't her father. Instead, he allowed his curiosity to get the better of him.

"You seem unfazed by my news of Henselt's army."

"I'm about to die—perhaps that has something to do with it," she replied.

"How easily you dispel your loyalty," Roche countered, toying with his sleeve.

Rusa pursed her lips impatiently. "It's you who should be worried. And Natalis. I raised the issue with him as well. He didn't take kindly to it."

Such brazen speech shocked her. How little inhibition we have left when we know the end is near. Roche, on the other hand, looked mildly impressed.

"I heard," he mumbled and couldn't help but scold. "You knew better than to plead your case to the Regent of Temeria with sympathetic words about the Scoia'tael."

"I'll keep that in mind during the 'trial'," she said. "Speaking of which, when does it begin? Or is this simply more Temerian pomp and, really, I'll be swinging from the scaffold come morning?"

Roche narrowed his eyes. "Order must be maintained even in times such as these. You'll get your trial. Can't say the same about Iorveth."

The small frown of concern angered him. Try as he might, it couldn't be balanced by the fact she'd shown similar concern for him only moments ago in her warning about Henselt. As if on cue, the glimmer of gold around her throat caught his eye. Half-hidden by the scruff of her shirt, it sat there, openly mocking him. Before he strangled her, he'd rip the chain from her neck. No, he'd strangle her with the chain, that was far more poetic.

"I've already said my piece about Vergen and that was thrown out the window. What more can I do?"

Roche glared at her incredulously. Due to her asking for his help or the pathetic resignation in her voice, he couldn't tell. Either way, his blood boiled. "Never have I met a woman so eager to die."

"Really?" Rusa's lips bunched together. "I imagine several women have had similar thoughts in your company."

"True, though not for the reasons you're implying."

Rusa's cheeks flushed at the memory. Interspersed throughout were images of women tortured—interrogated—by the man lounging before her. His hands on her thighs, working their way up and kneading her breasts, the tell tale sign of his lust for her making itself known under his uniform, days of tension momentarily released only to be… She swept off the chair and sat on the bookcase, arms folded defensively.

"Petulant woman," Roche muttered and made to leave. Reaching the door, his back to her, he said, "There are still those willing to fight against Henselt. I suggest you think of a plan."

Rusa clenched her jaw. There was nothing she hated more than Vernon Roche having the upper-hand. "Tell me," she said, "how does it feel knowing Iorveth's death has nothing to do with you?"

He left without a word, closing the door with another gentle click. Rusa grabbed a pillow to smother a scream. Roche's presence lingered. Breathless, she stared at the wall. _Plan_. She was to be hanged in two days and he expected her to concoct some genius method of attack against an army increasing its numbers and resources by the hour. Her mind flashed to Iorveth. Without him, Vergen loses the Scoia'tael. Her breath caught in her throat. Toruviel…

* * *

Days stretched on with no word of the trial. Rusa was quite happily stir-crazy, having only intermittent human contact with Rulf, who was fast becoming her lord and saviour. Nice to man, man gives food, according to her ravaged brain. The guard seemed bored himself, muttering about not being relieved from duty in over sixteen hours. Rusa nodded absently and regarded the bucket with dismay. The same one from the wagon. Unemptied. Only one thought brought her any encouragement. Iorveth's hanging would cause an uproar and she was yet to hear such commotion from the town square. She wondered if Roche had gone to the dungeons and couldn't even begin to imagine the conversation between them. A small, misguided slither of hope reignited in the knowledge that Roche and Iorveth needed one another. No other enemy would suffice. Now, however, they had one in common although Roche would not be so easily convinced. Rusa recalled their conversation about Letho and working with Iorveth to capture the kingslayer. The commander responded by saying the only place he'll accompany Iorveth is to the scaffold in Vizima square. How ironic.

But Roche hadn't been the one to take Iorveth in. The commander's dream had been thwarted. He'd pretend to revel simply in the fact that the elf's neck was soon to be in a noose but Rusa knew better. Roche, for all his patriotism, was angered by the outcome. A favourite toy snatched from the hands of a sinister child. If this was to be a chink in the armour, she'd waste no time in manipulating it.

Segments of their previous conversation kept randomly appearing. In her delirious state, Rusa pinpointed the fact that _something_ was vying for her attention. She raised her arms and let out a low hum. Once, long ago, a travelling mystic had visited the outskirts of Cintra. Rusa wasn't allowed to visit but apparently the woman raised her arms to the skies and made a strange noise in the back of her throat. Thinking back, she realised it was just the stable hand's idea of joke, reinforced by his laughter when she practiced in the courtyard. Well, she'd nothing to lose now.

Several minutes went by with nothing but jumbled images. Roche torturing Arnolt with a smile on his face, Iorveth broken and bloodied in the dungeons, Geralt and Triss reunited somewhere outside Vergen, Ves arm-wrestling a kaedweni soldier and winning, Toruviel lifeless on the edge of Flotsam's forest…Aryan collapsing at the top of Castle LaValette, Anaïs tugging her mother's sleeve rhythmically… Memories of Cintra, the scene with the stable hand first of all followed by walking the grounds with her mother, an ashen-haired girl whipping around the corner out of sight.

Cintra—so _foreign_ now. Rusa let a whimper fall from her lips. How much had changed since her childhood. And Brenna—a rite of passage for too many. Cintra. Dandelion had mentioned his love of its enchanted gardens. She favoured the Southern courtyard.

The rate of her heart increased so rapidly that she steadied herself in an effort to stay conscious. Her mother beckoned her to follow. She was unbearably real. Fingers close to touching, her mother smiled—warm, inviting, knowing. Rusa's eyes snapped open. Rulf was standing by the door.

"By order of Commander Natalis, I'm to accompany you to the Main Hall."

She gawked at him, slack-jawed. What of the promised public spectacle?

"Your trial," he reminded, pulling shackles from his belt. Rulf glanced at her from under heavy lids. "Prepared?" He frowned with bewilderment when she smiled.

"Lead the way."

The clanging of her shackles echoed off the walls as Rusa shuffled to the centre of the hall. Natalis, seemingly aged over the last few days, sat in the throne formerly occupied by Foltest. He didn't suit it, she thought, too much military stiffness about him. Perhaps he was a better leader for it. Crowds had gathered on either side, peasants mixed with nobles. She anxiously awaited the shriek of the old crone from the square. When it didn't come, her body visibly relaxed only to stiffen at the sight of Roche standing off to the side of the main platform. Arms folded, gaze directly on her, unspoken words passed between them. His eyes shifted to his left with such subtlety Rusa almost missed the gesture. A thin, wiry man to the right of Natalis bounced restlessly on his heels. The leather of his courtier shoes squeaked in contrast to the heavy rattle of her chains. Vizima's Louis Merse. Rulf released her, fell into the shadows, a stranger to her now. Her body burned under the scrutiny of so many. The silence extended, disturbed only by the scratching of a quill. The wiry man studied her for a moment then went on writing. A soft 'ahem' sounded from the crowd. Blue and white Temerian emblems adorned the walls with heavy sapphire drapes drawn back from stained-glass depictions of battle scenes. Brenna, she noted, was one of them, the familiar figure of a Scoia'tael impaled on a spear.

"The trial will now commence. If it please his Regency, I, Falwick Papebrock, will oversee the interrogation."

Natalis waved a hand. Surprised by the surname, Rusa jumped when addressed directly. Papebrock stepped forward, heels click-clacking across the stone in the most ostentatious manner.

"You stand before the Temerian Court accused of conspiring with the Scoia'tael, not only aiding and abetting a fugitive but the most sought after terrorist in the Northern Kingdoms." He bit the tip of his quill. "What say you in your defence?"

Natalis lifted his head to see his Commander's reaction. There was none.

"What say you?"

The words tumbled out carelessly. The room shuffled in agitation. Papebrock turned to Natalis with a knowing smirk. Rusa closed her eyes to regain her composure then stared straight at Natalis.

"I fight for a free-state where all races will share, build and prosper. Together, as one." Out the corner of eye Roche gave an imperceptible shake of his head. She ignored him. "I fight for a city where an elf can walk into a human inn and remain unharmed. I fight for the independence of those downtrodden by the remnants of centuries-old hatred. I fight for the right of men and women to choose their own path rather than be bound by social standing. I fight for those who are poor, who have nothing, so that they may die with a dignity currently unknown to them." A low murmur settled through the crowd. A noblewoman draped in purple velvet laid a hand on her husband's shoulder. Several peasants bowed their heads in hushed conversation. Rusa glanced at Roche. "Most of all, I fight for the city that remains Temeria's only hope in repelling an army of seven thousand Kaedwenis and those who have betrayed Temeria's interests in favour of Henselt's coin. I fight for the last bastion of hope against Kaedwen."

Papebrock was taken aback. In the silence, Rusa murmured, "As long as Iorveth's Scoia'tael fight for these reasons, then I am their ally."

It was Natalis who spoke. "Admitting to one's crimes is certainly not much of a defence."

"If I may, your Regency—"

"I was under the impression my guilt was predetermined," interrupted Rusa. "I see no reason to stand here and lie."

Natalis waved Papebrock off. "We spoke of this in Flotsam."

Rusa blushed and lowered her head. "Yes."

"Didn't do you any good."

"No."

Natalis sat back and rubbed a hand over his face. The lines in his forehead had deepened since Flotsam. "I was content to see you swinging from a noose several days ago. I was advised otherwise. I've received word of Henselt's gathering forces."

Papebrock 'tsked' when Rusa slouched. He would see to that, at least.

"Tell me," said Natalis. "What of Vergen's…forces?"

"A thousand, give or take." The confession sat heavy on her chest. She looked at Roche. "Peasants, mostly. Dwarves, nobles… I do not know the fate of the Scoia'tael."

"An army fit for a king!" Natalis roared, though the concern in his eyes spoke differently. Several people tittered from the crowd but there was hesitancy that, for the first time in days, caused Rusa to hope.

"Vergen needs aid," she said over the din of feverish mumblings. "If it falls, Temeria will soon follow—" she added pointedly—"weakened as you must be after the recent civil war."

Natalis gave a small nod and footsteps were upon her. Rusa swung around only to be hit across the face with such force her knees buckled and collapsed. Bleeding heavily, she glared at the Commander lounging on his throne. He appeared unconcerned. She looked at Roche then squeezed her eyes shut.

"You'd do well to watch your tongue," spat Papebrock and ordered her standing. It was Rulf who stepped forward to support her. She mumbled a thanks.

Natalis held up a hand. The room fell silent. "I concede your reasoning however you've nothing to offer me. If what you say is true, Henselt will sweep through Vergen within the month. I cannot spare a single soldier. We would do better to rebuild Temerian reinforcements for the inevitable attack."

As he got up to leave, Rusa panicked. "Wait!" She leaned against Rulf like some dishevelled rag doll. "If Vergen bolsters its forces, war in Temeria can and _will_ be avoided." Rusa hesitated and regained her balance, shuffling closer to the platform. Roche made to move toward her but Natalis raised an arm. The Regent eyed her suspiciously.

"You've something you want to say?"

"There are still those willing to fight against Henselt," she said, making sure to repeat Roche word for word. "I will find them for you."

A low hum rumbled through the room. Natalis sent Roche an incredulous glare before snorting derisively. "You will, will you? And just how do you plan to do that?"

"I will gather support from those who fought under the Cintran Volunteers. Finding Vissegerd is crucial." And then, nonchalantly, "I'm thinking Brugge."

Roche couldn't hide his surprise. He suggested she think of a plan and she'd done it. Equally absurd was that the plan had merit. Natalis frowned in his direction. Both commanders were temporarily stunned. Eventually, Roche broke the silence.

"The plan lacks specifics but deserves consideration."

The rustle of fabric filled the hall; agitation and excitement swept through the crowd. A warmth spread to Rusa's cheeks. Natalis was pensive as Roche leaned in and whispered something, eyes never leaving hers. As if in a daze, Natalis nodded.

"We need time to discuss this. If the plan goes ahead, Roche will accompany—"

An onslaught of alarm bells sounded from the square beyond the hall. A guard tumbled through the main doors and Natalis bolted upright, vigilant and wary. Roche glanced at Rusa who'd toppled over in the process of turning around.

"Dragon! Outskirts of the city!"

The crowd erupted into panic, wails of frightened noblewomen clashing with the violent screams of peasant men. Rusa tried to block it out as she struggled to stand. Rulf was nowhere in sight. Without delay, Natalis signalled his men and stormed out the hall.

"Quickly."

Roche lifted her to her feet and started running. Shackled, Rusa collapsed in a matter of seconds.

"Fuck's sake!"

Thrown over his shoulder the cobbles blurred beneath her. Blood rushed to her head, the pounding in her ears intensifying on meeting the rush of noise from the square. Roche tossed her onto a bale of hay, grabbed her legs, and lodged a dagger into the padlock. Once more with the hands, and only slightly less rough.

"Do you think it's the one from before?" Rusa asked, sweat dripping into her eyes.

"How many dragons do you know?" he snapped and helped her stand. "I'm sure of it."

A large, burly figure hurtled towards them and knocked Rusa over the hay with an "out of the way bitch" for good measure. Scrambling to her feet, Roche had the man by the scruff.

"Watch—your fucking—mouth!"

Three punches to face later and Roche shoved him aside. "We need to go."

"Where?!" Rusa struggled to match his pace. He snatched a wrist and pulled her up alongside him. "Your plan has merit. It is not altogether absurd." In the chaos, she caught the touch of pride in his voice. "We'll discuss it on the way. Let's go!"

Rusa stopped suddenly. "Iorveth."

"In the dungeons," he replied, jaw tightening.

"I'm not leaving unless he escapes," she said and steeled herself for the inevitable abuse.

Roche stared at her. Through her. "Why am I not surprised?"

A deafening roar from above saw a fresh wave of citizens running for their lives. Separated, she searched for the familiar chaperon. A hand wrapped around her waist and pulled her into an alcove.

"Iorveth stays where he is."

It was strangely comforting being shut away in this sequestered spot whilst the city raged. Roche's body pressed up against hers, more from lack of space than intimacy. Rusa squirmed uncomfortably and dug a heel into his shin by accident. He swore loudly and demanded she stop wriggling. When she continued, he brought her arms behind her back and pushed her into the wall.

"Just let me fucking think."

"Without Iorveth's—"

Roche increased the pressure on her arms. "Why don't you ever shut up? Be—" another heel to the shin—"Do that _one more time_!"

Rusa gargled something in her throat and coughed against the stone grazing the side of her face. "If we don't succeed in rallying more supporters, Vergen will need the Scoia'tael more than ever."

Receiving silence, she pressed on. "Iorveth isn't the threat. Besides," she attempted to turn her head for his reaction, "capturing Iorveth was supposed to be _your_ prize, not some scummy little soldier's."

Roche chuckled, his warm breath tickling her skin. "Oh, very good. How long did it take for you to come up with that?"

"A couple of days."

Finally, he turned her to face him."Do you realise what you're asking me to do?"

Rusa touched his chaperon hesitantly. "You still haven't told me why you wear this thing."

Roche brushed her hand aside and muttered something about lacking as stylish a haircut as hers. He handed her a heavy key and gestured to a wooden door on the other side of the square. "Lucky for you the guards are distracted." Rusa nodded hastily and searched his face, cold and withdrawn. Then a subtle twitch of the lips. "Do send him my regards."

They agreed to meet at the Western gate. Racing through the narrow passageways, Rusa touched the delicate burden in her back pocket. Being charged as its protector felt unfair. It belonged with Iorveth. In her exhaustion, she failed to acknowledge the fact the rose had retained its scent.

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A/N - Hope you enjoyed - I'd love to know your thoughts x


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N - Hi guys - chapter eleven for you. Thanks so much again for the kind words and alerts.**

 **Disclaimer - I own nothing except Rusa. The Witcher Universe belongs to Andrezj Sapkowski and CD Projekt Red...Bet you weren't expecting something formal. I guess it's ruined now...**

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 **Vergen** – **two days before the attack on Vizima**

There was a time when Dandelion found himself in certain situations that proved pleasurable enough to distract him from the daily concerns affecting all others. This time ended approximately two hours ago when he was informed by Lorin, a bouncy brunette with a generous smile and even more generous mouth, that she intended to travel back to Tiel to be with her ailing father. What bothered the bard was not the fact she was leaving but the ease with which she accepted her fate. What of him? What of his newly-finished sonnet now dedicated to a soon-to-be long-lost…Well, love was a bit much. But to have her so willingly discard their courtship… The lady doth not protest enough, methinks!

"Only the next town over," Zoltan said, coughing into his ale. The dwarf was six tankards down. Dandelion nodded and stared into his cup. "How long yer known her—six, seven days?"

The bard gave a wistful sigh. "Oh, five—" Zoltan let out a 'hmph'—"five glorious nights. Such a compassionate soul—the only maid brave enough to take food down to the dungeons!"

The feather in his hat shook enthusiastically as he began to regale anyone who would listen with the details. The peasant man nearest let out a squeal of delight as the bard waxed lyrical about the gloss of Lorin's hair in the firelight, the delicacy of her curves hidden under the pleats of a voluminous skirt—a skirt, mind you, that was easy enough to unhook with the flick of a finger—the way she'd stare up at him with innocent eyes untainted by experience.

"And now she departs for Tiel. I am but a memory—"

"Stored beneath her luscious locks?"

Dandelion swept off his seat with a smile that branded Lorin of Tiel a stranger for the time being. "Geralt! Too long, my friend. Whilst you've been gallivanting around the ravines, Zoltan's taken to draining Vergen dry. Sit. Tell us everything."

Zoltan grunted in greeting as the witcher took a seat opposite. Dusty, worn, and covered in some kind of black muck, Geralt signalled to the serving maid. Dandelion, excited by his friend's return, cast only a cursory glance at the woman. It was enough for him to decide on certain activities for the night but for now, "Geralt, I'm not one to undermine your efforts and successes—you are, as you know, my most cherished muse—however I must insist you bathe at some point."

"It's true, Geralt," Zoltan said. "I hardly get a mention."

Dandelion waved the comment aside. "My friend, speak. You look exhausted. Any news on the ingredients?"

The serving maid returned with a tankard and gave a small curtsy. Geralt returned her gesture with a nod despite knowing it was not meant for him. He placed a striped piece of cloth on the table. "Triss's bandana. She was nearby."

Dandelion's eyes lit up as Zoltan thumped the witcher on the arm in celebration. The moment soon passed. Triss was still missing. Geralt pocketed the bandana. "She was here. Letho forced her to teleport in an effort to reach Serrit and Auckes before the Scoia'tael messenger." The other two nodded, remembering talk of Iorveth sending a message to the unit housing those responsible for Demavend's death. And if Letho reached the unit before the messenger…

"It was a massacre," said Geralt. "Letho and the others escaped unharmed. They're somewhere on the other side of the fog."

Dandelion shot Zoltan a look, the dwarf mumbling something into his beard and averting his eyes. The bard spoke, surprised by the break in his usually melliferous tone. "Don't worry, Geralt. Keep in mind who resides on the other side. Right now, Roche is nothing less of a hound who's sniffed blood and been denied the pleasure. What of Triss?"

The witcher closed his eyes. "Letho left her in a gully, wounded. He probably thought that she'd diversify the local trolls' diet."

"I imagine she planned to reach Philippa but missed the mark," Dandelion offered.

"Speaking of which," Zoltan interrupted. "Eilhart's likely chomping at the bit. Come, Geralt, let's go to her quarters."

Geralt stood up and adjusted his belt. "I've news about Síle that Philippa's not going to like."

Unsurprisingly, Dandelion was the first to rush from the tavern. Zoltan exchanged a knowing look with the witcher. "Scandal and sorcery," he muttered and Geralt almost smiled as the bard swept through the crowd, a beacon of bright silks and satin. Both were thinking similar thoughts: a year from now, Dandelion would undoubtedly unveil his magnum opus, a saga of all that befell him (and others, of course, mainly Geralt, maybe Zoltan but only in the role of the bard's trusty accomplice who had a penchant for complaining and swinging an axe at anything that moved, sometimes missing much to the dwarf's contempt). As Dandelion skipped up the steps, he was composing. When he wooed a serving maid, he was rhyming. And as he stopped a foot from Philippa's door, he was penning a rather explicit scene involving the mage and her apprentice. Geralt barged into her quarters unannounced, Dandelion's eyes brightening at the sight of Cynthia gathering her clothing from the foot of the bed. He let his mind wander as Geralt brought Philippa up to speed.

"I can assure you she is not in Vergen."

A nudge to the ribs and the bard reluctantly turned his attention to the task at hand. Triss. Bandana. Find Triss, find rose, save Saskia. He glanced down at Zoltan with a reassuring smile and received an impatient snort in return.

"She has to be here," Geralt said softly, though the threat in his voice was clear. "Locate her."

Philippa was unmoved. "I'll try, but it will take some time. Have you learned anything else?"

The witcher eyed her carefully and looked to the others. Zoltan began to inspect his sleeve with silent understanding. Philippa sighed in annoyance. "You've something you wish to tell me, witcher, I insist you spit it out."

"Síle ordered Letho and Triss killed."

Dandelion waited with baited breath as the tension mounted. To accuse a sorceress of the Lodge in front of a fellow member was no small slight. To his surprise, Philippa seemed genuinely taken aback—offended even—and arched a fine brow.

"I can't believe that."

Geralt bit back his frustration. "Believe it. I ran into some mercenaries she enlisted to kill Letho and anyone found with him."

"She must have meant the other kingslayers," Philippa suggested diplomatically, bitterness shadowing her expression of concern. "Are you sure she knew Triss was with him?"

Zoltan stepped in. "Are you so sure of Síle?"

Philippa regarded him coolly and with a slight sneer, remarked, "I assure you, sir dwarf, I am not blinded by shared genetics. I shall hear Geralt's side."

"There _was_ something going on with her and Triss back in Flotsam… I sensed a lot of tension," said Geralt, placing a hand in between them.

"A misunderstanding," Philippa snapped, conversation over.

Geralt conceded. "Maybe. Let's find Triss and clear everything up."

"Agreed. We find Triss, we find the rose," she replied with a pragmatism that made Zoltan's blood boil. As if she sensed this, the mage turned on him. "No news of Iorveth?"

"Fuck all."

Dandelion had stationed himself at a window on the other side of the room. A half-smile, half-frown settled on his face and Zoltan piped up, "What's so interesting?"

"People are gathering below in the square…" the bard trailed off and snapped his eyes to them as sounds of the commotion travelled upwards. Philippa hitched up the hem of her dress and stormed outside. A nobleman greeted them by the steps.

"What's going on?" she demanded, Geralt drawing up beside her. Zoltan saluted Yarpin standing a further ways off and dragged Dandelion behind him.

The noble was flustered and spoke quickly, "The peasants want to take pitchforks to King Demavend's son!" Philippa rolled her eyes and gestured for him to elaborate. "The Dragonslayer's servant is spreading rumours that Stennis poisoned Saskia. The commoners are in an uproar—they want to dispense justice."

"Hence why they're considered commoners," the sorceress muttered. "Where is Prince Stennis?"

"Barricaded himself in his room, guarded by nobles," he replied breathlessly and began pacing in the other direction. He called over his shoulder, "For the moment, the peasants are still respectful, but they are feverish. A fight is inevitable. I must rally the other nobles!"

"Dogs growl at cats. Cats hiss at dogs. A noble's a wolf to a peasant," mused Geralt and Philippa refused to indulge him.

"Forget those animalistic similes and take care of it. I'll try to locate Triss. It'll take some time. And should anything happen to Prince Stennis, remember… We need his blood."

"He chose not to help before—why do you think he'd be willing give us blood now?"

Philippa sighed. "I like to believe he'll be in your debt once you save him from the rabble. Keep in mind, we need his blood, not his death."

"I don't trust him. And how many times do I have to tell you? I'm not a kingslayer."

"You don't need to trust him; you _need_ the blood. Drug him, if you must, let Dandelion serenade him into a slumber and take advantage. Do whatever it takes!"

She made to leave but Geralt blocked her exit. "Is there a chance Saskia's poisoning has anything to do with Henselt?"

Philippa stepped back, surprised. "I've not yet considered this."

"I imagine Henselt would sooner reach an agreement with Stennis rather than Saskia," shrugged Geralt, receiving an appraising look. She slipped around him and started back to her quarters.

"Seems you're quite the politician, nowadays."

Geralt found Zoltan and Dandelion outside Stennis's lodgings in the Castle of the Three Fathers. The bard looked positively delighted by the throng of peasants gathering by the doors, yelling obscenities to the nobles standing guard.

"Never liked the pup," grumbled Zoltan. "The commoners claim Stennis poisoned Saskia. Got wind of it from some babbling servant. They're looking to slaughter him. Skalen Burdon and his dwarves are trying to contain the mob, but they're badly outnumbered."

"The plebs'll yell a lot, beat someone up and go home. As peasants do," said Dandelion, ignoring the doubt.

"Don't be foolish," replied the dwarf, "they're not serfs anymore. The days of them humbly sowing and reaping are gone. Everyone knows Stennis has not lifted a damn finger since he arrived. The bastard's refused to cooperate due to petty noble grudges."

Geralt nodded and cut in, "Where's this servant?"

"Under lock and key with the Scoia'tael."

Dandelion tilted his head in agreement and focused ahead. The crowd was growing in numbers and impatience. "Things are about to get nasty. Geralt, you need to get to Stennis somehow. Perhaps Cecil knows of another way in. Zoltan and I will maintain order, you've no need to worry about that."

The dwarf scoffed. "Aye, and what'll you be doin'? Boring the bastards to death with yer sweet nothings?"

Dandelion gasped and brought a hand to his chest. "I'll have you know that my latest work—"

"Your highness," a noble dropped to a bow, "this is dangerous."

Stennis emerged, resplendent in his gold-plated armour. Zoltan hissed through his teeth and sent Geralt an uneasy look.

"I'm not afraid," declared the prince. "Fear is a commoner's trait, unfit for one with royal blood running in his veins."

"We need that blood," mumbled Geralt and Dandelion hushed him.

"What do you want? To judge me?" yelled Stennis. "Is a prince a common thief who steals a dozen eggs at the market? You stand before your royal majesty! And you raise your hands against it!"

"The prince's hands are dirtier than a girl's fucked in a barn." Dandelion silenced the dwarf with a look.

Stennis continued, eyeing the peasants one by one. "In this world there are crimes that can be forgiven! And crimes that, by any means, cannot! Just as a mother killing her own child or a man slitting his own brother's throat cannot be forgiven… A crime against one anointed by the gods themselves also cannot be condoned! He who raises hand against divine right is not worthy to walk this world."

Dandelion pressed his lips into a thin line. "Not the best approach, I admit."

A peasant stepped forward, fist raised. "And what about he who poisons the Virgin of Aedirn?

The prince raised his hands. "Firstly, Saskia is alive so I cannot be blamed for her death. Secondly, you have no proof that it was I who tried to murder her! And thirdly, I assure all gathered here, I won't rise above the law. However, only she, the Virgin of Aedirn, can judge me."

"Canny!" roared a peasant woman. "And if Saskia won't get well, who's gonna judge yer?"

"I believe she can be cured," replied Stennis calmly. "But if the gods decide otherwise, we'll summon a coven of the wise who can pass just sentence."

"Those are the words worthy of a _true_ sovereign!" shouted another noble. Geralt tightened his jaw and nodded when Zoltan bet the pompous prick enjoys the royal prick.

Stennis caught the witcher's eye and squared his shoulders. "I am the one you should look to for guidance. Let my deeds be the flame that lights up your darkness."

Acknowledging the exchange, the peasants fell into a low murmur, casting pleading looks at Geralt before falling silent. The witcher, for his part, could listen to these haughty ramblings no longer. Dandelion made no attempt to stop him as he stepped into the fray.

Despite his contempt—the overwhelming urge to hurry and _have done with it_ , the _knowledge_ that the death of Stennis would mean his blood and another step to Saskia's survival—Geralt composed himself.

"The prince has a right to a fair trial, no matter if he's guilty or not. We can't deny him that." He turned on the mob, ignoring the loud groan from Zoltan that rang above the outrage. "What will the peasants do if we hand him the prince? Will they hear him out? No. They'll hang him from the nearest tree, or tear him limb from limb. Allowing Vergen to succumb to mob rule will only serve to bring about its demise."

Amidst the din, two dwarven guards accompanied Stennis from the building. The peasants stood aside reluctantly, not daring to provoke the witcher. The woman who'd spoken during Stennis's spiel gave him a look that made Geralt all too glad to see Dandelion making his way through the crowd.

"Well said, Geralt," he praised. Zoltan was unimpressed.

"The peasants are furious."

"They didn't dare mount a frontal attack."

"They won't forget about Stennis," Zoltan warned. "It'll be that way until Saskia regains consciousness. By the way, we're royally fucked on that front or did yer fail to notice Stennis escaped full-blooded?"

"Would you have me slit his throat in public?" countered Geralt.

"I care not for the bastard, you know this. We need royal blood and five quarts go to waste in the dungeons at the moment!"

"There's also Henselt."

Zoltan spluttered and raised a fist at no one in particular. "Going into that haunted mist is _madness_. Stealing Stennis away would be easier!"

"No," Geralt said sharply. "Anything involving Stennis would incite a riot."

"Ah, enough of ploughing nobles and peasants." Zoltan gestured to the door. "Let's get ourselves a drink. Dandelion's unwell, we've not heard a peep from him for several minutes."

The bard was pensive and smiled on hearing his name. Zoltan merely grunted when he explained he'd business to attend to and would meet them at The Cauldron by sundown.

Geralt set out to Philippa's and bristled on seeing the door slightly ajar. A heavy tome narrowly missed him upon entering. Philippa stormed over to him, livid. Blood dripped into her eye from a gash on her forehead.

"The plague! I was so foolish! Cherish this rare moment, witcher. Philippa Eilhart's been had by a cheap Nilfgaardian bitch! When I find her we'll have it out like never. She'll regret her mother didn't abort her!"

She spun on her heel and blasted a bookshelf. "She had it, Geralt. She had it all along!"

Geralt steadied his hands and told her to calm down. Philippa's eyes flared and the witcher slammed into the door with a force unmatched by any other sorceress. "Calm down? Calm down?!" she screeched. "You saw me whip the bitch, yes? Oh, that was just foreplay! When I find her I am going to fuck—"

"You need to calm down," said Geralt, rising to his feet as Philippa overturned the bed. "Tell me what happened."

"Cynthia had the rose, Geralt. _Triss's rose_. The bitch is a Nilfgaardian spy," she seethed and Geralt felt it like a blow to the back of the head.

"So the rose is gone?" Images of Triss tumbled through his thoughts and he imagined his pulse would accelerate if his body allowed it. "Have you located Triss?"

Philippa breathed heavily through her nose and surveyed the room. "In answer to your first question, not necessarily. That viper was in a hurry and left her bric-a-brac, several incriminating notes included. One of these notes fell into my possession and, well, here we are."

She searched through a pile of drawers on the dresser. Geralt looked on, thoroughly confused. "So, this Cynthia saw Triss? When and where?"

Philippa gave an impatient tut. "Geralt, do you honestly think I've the answer to that? I'm just as confounded as you. Ah—" she held up the rose—"Triss Merigold's Rose of Remembrance." She cast Geralt a mischievous look. "Alive and well."

"As for Triss," she continued and for once found herself hesitating. "She's on the other side of the mist."

"You managed to locate her? We need to—"

"Geralt, I must tell you something. Before Cynthia slammed me into the wall and fled, I was able to yield some information from her. You won't like what I'm about to tell you. The Nilfgaardians have Triss. As you may well have gathered Cynthia was no mage-in-training. She cast a spell on Triss and turned her into a figurine. Artefact compression."

Philippa allowed Geralt some time to absorb the details. "No doubt the whore has run for the hills. A powerful mage would be needed in order to decompress the artefact…"

"What do the Nilfgaardians plan to do with Triss?" asked Geralt, struggling to keep his voice steady. The aura around the rose hummed softly.

"She was Foltest's royal advisor," Philippa replied vaguely. "Stripped of her title, certainly, but still a woman of great political sway. Never mind this for now, we've got the rose, along with the immortelle. Have you acquired Stennis's blood?"

Geralt rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. "Prince Stennis currently sits in Vergen's dungeons—" he held up a hand as Philippa's eyes widened considerably—"We still have Henselt."

"Bravo, witcher. Stennis was there for the taking and—no, we must not dally. Come dawn, I'll accompany you through the mist. There's no time to lose."

On entering The Cauldron, Geralt was welcomed with open arms and a tankard. "Sit, my boy, drink! It's been a long day."

Zoltan shoved a drink into his hand, chuckling when it spilled over the both of them. "Well, fuck."

Geralt collapsed onto a bench by the fire unable to join in Zoltan's mirth. His thoughts fell to Triss. Alone, scared… did one think and feel when compressed? So lost in his thoughts was he that he failed to notice the flash of purple fall into the seat beside him. The fire had dulled. An hour must have passed, at least.

"Well, I'll tell you, Geralt, it wasn't easy."

Dandelion stared into the fire, dirt smudged across his cheek. "Philippa was in a foul mood when I left."

Geralt frowned. "What have you done?"

The bard stretched his long legs across the hearth and flashed him a brilliant smile. He produced a small vial. "No need to thank me, my friend."

It took several moments for Geralt to realise the vial contained blood. Dandelion swivelled the tube as one would a fine wine. "Philippa's mad at me. Said her herbs were _not_ for seduction and could I one day find a productive hobby? Like she's one to talk."

"Dandelion, cut to the chase."

" _Excuse_ me. I just risked my hide attaining such a treasure." He regarded the vial with furtive pleasure as one would a mistress. "Well, in truth, I had a little help. The prince is unharmed—unconscious—but unharmed. We've Philippa's concoction to thank for that. A mere slice of the hand and, as those in Toussaint say, _voila_!"

Dandelion handed over the vial and observed, with joy, an expression on Geralt's face akin to surprise. "How did you get in?"

He gave a sheepish grin. "Oh, I waited outside. Are you referring to this?" He pointed to the dirt on his face. "That's a result of something far more pleasurable, I assure you. A final farewell, so to speak, to one of the best serving maids this side of the Continent." Dandelion sobered and reassured Geralt, "She's safe—no longer in Vergen."

The witcher was impressed. "The nobles won't be happy."

Dandelion slapped his knees and stood up. "Come, Geralt, let's see to the Virgin."

Whilst the bard regaled Zoltan with his tale of heroic bravery and wild passion, Geralt climbed the steps to Philippa's. Rising noise from Rhundurin Square caught his attention and given his viewpoint he could make out the silhouette of two horses, one limping heavily but keeping pace. The outline of the riding figures sharpened and Geralt noticed the tell-tale eye-patch. Seherim.

Assuring an impatient Philippa that he'd meet her in Saskia's quarters immediately, Geralt rushed towards the square. Seherim, silhouetted by the fading sun, raised a hand in greeting.

"Witcher."

"Greetings, Seherim." He followed the elf's gaze to other horse, a hefty wooden splint attached to its hind leg. Geralt approached the body slumped forward in the saddle and placed a hand under the chin. Bruised eyelids fluttered open.

"Gwynbleidd."

"Toruviel."

"Iorveth and Rusa await their deaths in Vizima. We must hurry."

* * *

 **Somewhere near Brenna – two days after the attack on Vizima**

"Your sword is digging into my hip."

"Then move."

"There's no room."

"Then walk. This is your doing."

"What was I to do? Send Iorveth back to Vergen on foot?"

Roche grunted in response. He'd waited with two horses by the Western gate—as planned—only to find Rusa trudging towards him, semi-conscious elf draped against her shoulder. After handing over her bow—the look of surprise on her face would have been endearing in other circumstances—they spent ten minutes arguing before she demanded Iorveth take her horse. It took another five minutes of receiving abuse before Roche conceded given half the city was going up in flames. What irritated him most was not the fact that Iorveth lived but that he had the nerve to sit on that damned horse, stare up in the sky and _smile_. But that wasn't the end of it. The elvish drivel he spouted to Rusa as he guided the horse in the opposite direction made the commander want to lodge his sword straight through the elf's chest. As Rusa tightened a buckle on his saddle, the men exchanged a look. If it held some sort of meaning, neither cared to decipher it.

If Rusa and Roche feared an awkward silence descending whilst they rode, their concern was unfounded. An hour into the journey and they'd already debated over what to do once they find Vissegerd— _if_ he could be found in the first place. This crescendoed into a heated argument over the final night in Flotsam where according to Roche, Rusa fled with the elves whilst Ves almost died at that whoreson Loredo's house. Understanding the need to vent his anger and acknowledging he'd held back until now, Rusa asked after Ves only to receive a torrent of abuse—"What do you care? We could've all died while you played at being a squirrel!" Absolutely livid, she slid off the horse with a kick to the Commander's side for good measure and stormed off, insisting she'd rather walk and risk being attacked by a group of bandits than share another moment on that godforsaken horse. Roche's temper flared and only just managing to stay seated yelled, "Saskia's a rebel, a wench from who knows where! She only speaks of knightly honour…"

"Says Vernon Roche, blue-blooded prince, heir to Temeria!"

He'd made her walk for an hour despite her protestations before eventually helping her up. They'd just reached Zavada causing Roche to quicken their pace. Now, Rusa tightened her hands around his waist and leaned into his back. "Mind if I sleep?"

"We'll reach the outskirts of Maribor within the hour."

A light snore escaped her lips and Roche observed her arms fell limp. He wondered when she'd last slept. Or bathed. On arrival, he'd find them suitable lodgings with a tub and demand she wash straight away. Out of spite, she'd decline and make her way over to the warm bed implying Roche was to sleep on the floor. He'd throw her over his shoulder and dump her into the bath fully-clothed and lock the door until she soaked away several weeks' worth of sweat, blood, and dirt.

Roche tapped the pouch hanging from his belt—those idiots in the treasury wouldn't miss a few pieces of gold. They'd been travelling for almost two days. Passing over Brenna had, to his surprise, yielded little response from Rusa minus a few comments about how lovely it was to see the fields green once again. To which Roche replied—in his best attempt to sound remotely interested—"I imagine the ground to be quite fertile."

"From all the corpses, you mean?"

That she'd read his mind made him uncomfortable. Not due to any vague desire to remain unreadable but because his thoughts were also her own. They'd all fought in Brenna, lost loved ones, lost themselves. What made Roche uncomfortable was how she _said_ it. Offhandedly, without pause.

How exactly did he expect her to react? Mournful, teary-eyed, a blubbering mess? He knew better than that. He frowned at the sleeping form resting below his shoulder, cheek squashed up against the chain draped across his back. Several cuts and bruises were starting to transform into a pinkish patch here and there. The warmth of her breath was visible in the evening cold. Roche had given her a blanket he found in the Vizima stables. She'd looked at him suspiciously, asking is this a blanket for a horse? To which he replied—in his best attempt to distract her—"I suppose you could place yourself directly in the dragon's path and burn for a while."

Rusa stirred and let out a loud, dramatic yawn.

"Good, you're awake."

"Only just."

Roche signalled to a small inn in the distance. "We've things to discuss before entering the city. We'll stay here for the night then continue on in the morning."

Rusa gave her sleepy consent and allowed herself to be gently swayed to their destination. The inn was warmly lit from the inside and the scent of vegetable stew seeping underneath the main door was enough to make her mouth hang open longingly. In her haze, it dawned on her she'd no money to pay for anything. When she raised her concern Roche dismissed it.

"How gentlemanly," she sighed earning a sharp look.

"You will bathe immediately."

Rusa slid from the saddle with an incredulous look. "I spent four days forced to piss in a bucket!"

Unsure of what to do with this information, Roche tethered the horse and made his way into the inn, a sound of disbelief following him from behind. The innkeeper seemed a cheerful, portly type with an apron that resembled a muddied doormat. On seeing Roche, she greeted them with a tight smile before attacking a leg of something with a cleaver.

"May I help you?"

A young woman appeared out of nowhere. A pretty girl, not far from Rusa's age, with mousy brown hair and a faded floral dress. And an apron, Rusa noted, with its original colour intact apart from a few stains. The girl eyed Roche warily.

"Please, we need a room for the night," Rusa cut in and with a patronising smile to the man beside her, "One with a bath."

The girl brightened and sent a frown in Roche's direction before leading them to a reasonably sized room with a large feather bed and a lattice screen shielding a brass tub. The girl—Henrietta, a rather imposing name for a serving maid Rusa thought—offered to heat some water and deliver it as soon as possible. With a quick curtsy, she left the room and Rusa collapsed face-down on the bed. She could hear Roche fiddling with his weapons in the corner.

Her voice was muffled when she said, "Not well-liked in these parts, are you?"

"Why does that surprise you?"

Rusa rolled over and stared at the ceiling. The feeling of her back sinking into the furs was divine. "I guess because we're still in Temeria, I thought—"

"Everyone would bow down? The day that happens is the day I quit my job."

"Come to think of it, you're not much liked anywhere."

Roche's face fell serious. "I follow orders others are incapable of executing."

"I noticed."

Rusa greeted Henrietta at the door and smiled at the warmth rising from two large buckets. The girl gave Roche a stern look and yanked the screen in front of them with a huff. Steam sizzled off the brass and crackled in competition with the cold. Revelling in the thawing of her fingers and toes, Rusa hastily stripped off her clothes noting, with disgust, how filthy they truly were. Sweat stains, dirt, blood, and, well, she'd ignore the incriminating yellow stains for now. A grown woman does _not_ wet herself and she knew insisting the stains were from the cells in Flotsam would fall on deaf ears. Although, it'd been difficult to aim in the wagon. She shuddered at the memory before slowly dipping a foot into the water. Henrietta had managed to procure rose petals and drizzled them across the surface. The kindness and elegance of such an action was in sharp contrast to her demanding Roche step aside so _she_ could light the fire _properly_.

Rusa sank into the tub and meditated on the petals swirling gracefully with the current. She thought of Iorveth and she screwed her eyes shut at the vision of him travelling to Vergen alone, broken and bloodied, much like Toruviel but with so much more distance to cover. Roche wasted no time in interrupting her musings.

"Lovely girl," he said once the door clicked shut. "Have you fallen asleep?"

"No," Rusa coughed, stifling a laugh and swatting away the mist rising from the tub. After weeks spent seemingly enveloped in sweat and shit, the overwhelming fragrance of the bathwater was an onslaught on the senses. "No, I'm just… The water's hot…"

"Interesting." Roche took a seat by the fire. Suddenly, the screen separating them seemed disconcertingly thin.

"There's more to my being disliked here than simply being an unlikeable man overall," he went on and Rusa bit her lip, wondering if she should assuage his self-doubt. She sank further and smiled into the bubbles. _Self-doubt._

"I'm listening," she said, not caring to hide her curiosity.

Henrietta entered after a soft knock and set a tray on the sideboard.

"Wine and clothes for the lady," she said and Rusa graciously accepted a goblet. Roche asked if he was to drink from the horses' trough and the girl eyed the second goblet before slamming the door.

"Onto business," he said. "We don't know the precise whereabouts of Vissegerd. He may not be in Brugge, may have even left the Continent—"

"Oh, surely not!"

"I've received no word of him since the war. It's been many years, as you know."

Rusa conceded but reiterated that it was the most logical place to begin the search.

"Agreed. However, think for a moment. The thousands who fought in Brenna would've scattered across the Northern Realms."

She slipped out of tub into a warm towel—squashing the urge to immediately jump back in—and ruffled the new set of clothes. No breeches, unfortunately, but a sturdy blouse and practical skirt that would serve fine. About to tie her hair up, she smiled as her hand touched the chopped ends. Functional, if not stylish. With a fixed grimace, Rusa studied her reflection, barely recognising the bruised, distorted skin. Green eyes, though, she recognised these. She took a seat opposite Roche by the fire and sipped from her goblet. The commander hadn't touched his.

"I suppose you might be right. I, however, only ended up at LaValette. I like to believe those who served in the Cintran Volunteers went back home to rebuild…"

Roche steepled his fingers, casually observing her change in attire. "Under the watchful eyes of Nilfgaard, I highly doubt that. No, as you say, Brugge is logical. However, there's no reason why we can't start asking questions in Maribor."

"If you say so."

"And this is where we may encounter a few problems," he said and Rusa narrowed her eyes accusingly. "Maribor is under the rule of Duke Jurkast. A man with a habit of holding grudges long-forgotten by everyone else. Never quite forgave the king for stealing his favourite sorceress—" Roche acknowledged her confusion—"Triss Merigold. Jurkast's also Foltest's cousin and your basic son of a bitch."

"A little healthy competition for you, then," Rusa replied with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Refreshed from the bath and clothed in new garments inspired a spark of energy she'd not felt in a long time. Not to mention a certain clear-headedness, as if a fog was lifting, beyond which sat the Commander of the Blue Stripes now staring at her evenly.

"The king's cousin is similar to Foltest only in appearance. The man's a lout with a sickly mouse of a boy for an heir—a boy who, he insists, is entitled to the Temerian throne. For this reason, he refused to aid Foltest in the war on LaValette. Nevertheless, the Duke played a crucial role during Nilfgaard's siege of Maribor and was the driving force behind that fortress maintaining its walls. He is the only lead we have available to us in regards to Vissegerd's whereabouts."

Roche studied her reaction carefully, knowing full well she'd be thinking of Anaïs and Boussy. He checked himself then thought better of it and sneered, "Forgot about them, did you?"

Rusa smiled, took another sip, then threw the rest of the contents in his direction before smashing the goblet on the ground. Weeks of frustration manifesting as rivulets of wine dripping from Roche's darkening expression. He snatched a bit of her skirt to wipe his face as she stormed past and simply watched as she tumbled to floor with a loud grunt. She scrambled to the sideboard and pitched the other goblet with more force this time. When it sounded against the wall she glared up at him. He towered over her for a moment before finally offering a hand. Rusa's jaw tightened and she jumped up with a hard slap at the gesture.

"I need you to be serious," he said and casually made his way back to the fire.

Rusa flopped into the armchair. "I _was_ serious. Now, I'm just angry."

"That's too bad," Roche replied with a small smile. She bunched her lips together and dug her nails into the chair. This—all of _this_ —had been a terrible idea. A ridiculous notion put into her head whilst half-starved and delirious. Rusa took a deep breath and found herself surveying the room in its entirety.

"I'm surprised we're not sleeping in a ditch somewhere. This seems a bit excessive for a man of such austere tastes."

"I preferred the prospect of peace and quiet rather than your complaints about how the grass is too long or the moon is too cold."

Rusa directed her gaze at the fire, aware of Roche's scrunity. "Yes, well. Where were we?"

He gave her a strange look then said, almost approvingly, "Good. If Jurkast refuses to cooperate, we'll just have to convince him. If he _still_ refuses, you may need to make use of your feminine wiles. Sorely limited by this new haircut of yours."

Rusa brought a hand to the back of her neck self-consciously and pulled several strands. "If you're planning to whore me out when we get there, can you just come out and say it?"

He gave a grim smile. "I'm prepared to do anything for Temeria—even whore _myself_ out."

"That's comforting."

Roche chuckled and realised with great annoyance that she'd actually taken his words to heart. In his frustration he didn't care to correct the situation. Did she truly think so ill of him? He thought of Flotsam, of forcing Ves to enter Loredo's house, coming close to pressuring Rusa into doing the same. That was different.

"Roche—what's happening in Henselt's camp?"

Rusa could no longer contain her anxiety. He waved her aside and went to help himself to some fruit. It was an odd contrast, Roche's rough, calloused hands delicately cutting up an apple. She simply stared at him, waiting for an explanation. He offered her a slice then sat back and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"The situation is dire, not least for the sheer number of Henselt's forces." She waited patiently as Roche stood up and began his routine pace. "I've been trying to organise resistance against Henselt from the inside. Not having access to the Temerian treasury is limiting any chance of success. Dethmold—Henselt's mage—is powerful. Too powerful. If Vergen is to stand a chance, that man has to die."

Roche spoke reluctantly, but the sincerity was there. He continued, words laced with frustration, "There's something else. Something I've caught wind of but am unable to figure out."

Rusa gasped. "You desire my opinion?"

"There is to be a summit at Loc Muinne," he went on with a brief flick of the lips. "The mages want to resurrect the Council and the Conclave that once represented all the sorcerers and sorceresess of the North. King Radovid, the ruler of Redania, is also invited. As Loc Muinne lies in Kaedwen, Henselt is likely to attend, as well."

He turned on his heel. "I've jumped too far ahead. Do you remember the mage from Flotsam?"

Rusa nodded. "Síle de Tansarville."

"Precisely." Roche sat on the edge of the chair in anticipation. "She currently resides in Henselt's camp and somehow managed to locate the kingslayers' hideout. They were hiding nearby, in the gullies. Dethmold sent his men there but Foltest's killer fled. Two other witchers were covering him."

When she averted her eyes Roche demanded she look at him. "One was taken alive," he said softly. "Before he died from torture, he revealed that Letho went to Loc Muinne. You have something you want to tell me?"

Rusa inhaled sharply and drew back. She considered her words carefully before realising the effort to be futile, confessing, "Serrit and Auckes. The two other kingslayers are Serrit and Auckes."

"Well, that's not much help now, is it?"

"Oh. I…suppose not," she admitted, cheeks flushing more from the humorous look he gave her than this unexpected response.

"I don't even want to know how you managed to attain that information," Roche said, heaving himself up to go sit on the far side of the bed. Rusa concentrated on the fire as he removed his armour, piece by piece.

"If we send word to Novigrad, I can acquire the gold needed to convince your allies to turn against Henselt."

"You sound very certain," he muttered.

"What use is it dwelling in speculation at a time like this?" she shot back.

Roche left one boot tied and stared at the back of the chair. A small tuft of hair near her temple had spiked in a random direction and cast an amusing shadow on the hearth. "None," he acknowledged and, truthfully, "I'll consider it."

Rusa smiled to herself and lounged for at least another hour. She assumed Roche had fallen asleep by the time the fire dimmed to a faint glow. At the foot of the bed she noticed he was laying on top of the quilts and bit back a smile. _Gentlemanly_. She also realised he'd removed his chaperon. Only a silhouette of short hair—not as short as she thought it might be—was visible in the failing light.

"Get in and go to sleep."

Rusa startled and swiftly removed her skirt before sliding under the covers. Not for lack of trying she eventually found herself staring at the ceiling, wide-eyed and alert. Roche gave a loud sigh.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"There's something on your mind."

Rusa snorted. "That's an understatement." She hesitated when met with silence. "It's been bothering me for a while. Back in Zavada…" Roche said nothing. "I got the impression you didn't want to linger."

"No."

"It's where you grew up, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said simply, annoyed by yet accustomed to her uncanny intuition.

"Aren't you curious?"

Roche grimaced at the prospect of such candid conversation. There was no curiosity on his part. He was mindful of his words when he replied, "I'm here. In this inn. With a woman who'll never learn when to shut the fuck up."

* * *

 **A/N - Thanks for reading. I'm so happy people are enjoying this story - go little fandoms go! What are your thoughts? :)**


	12. Chapter 12

A/N - Thanks for your support, always grateful =)

Disclaimer - Avaunt! shackles of copyright; forsooth, tis disclaim'd.

* * *

 **Vergen – Present Day**

"Step… Turn… Turn…"

Hooves clopped against the gravel, clumsy at first, before falling into an easy rhythm. Toruviel brushed a strand of hair from her cheek and manoeuvred Seven towards a trough. The horse was tired and, in truth, so was she. She didn't complain when Sev resisted the tug of the reins. At the trough, she'd a moment to reposition the splint much to the annoyance of the famished horse above. Toruviel struggled with the straps before whipping the back of Seven's knee with a stray cord. Softly, of course, and unnoticed yet she felt as if she'd branded the beast with a hot poker. She sat back against the trough and rubbed her eyes. This anger. She'd felt the beginnings of its vice grip during the journey back to Vergen; a sharp talon clawing its way through her chest. All that effort—and for what! Two nights ago in The Cauldron she'd overheard the bard mention something about Triss Merigold's rose of remembrance. She didn't know the details as to how the rose had been recovered but not the sorceress herself. Overwhelmed by unjust bitterness, she didn't care. The torment they suffered in Flotsam was worthless. During their journey, Seherim rode a little ways ahead so as to give her space. He considered the she-elf angry due to his refusal to ride with her to the ruins. She insisted on collecting the last rose of remembrance. _Without it Saskia will die_ , she argued. But it was suicide. The ruins were heavily guarded by the militia. In their ignorance, they didn't know what they were guarding but denying the Scoia'tael of something—anything—was a worthy cause in itself. Little did she know then that Seherim was, in fact, doing her a favour beyond saving her life. It would have been for nothing, anyway.

Toruviel folded into herself, the sound of Seven's heavy tongue lapping the water creating a peaceful rhythm. Visions of the disgusting dh'oine chasing her through Flotsam's forests…She'd never be rid of them. He wasn't the worst creature she'd been pursued by. What persisted was the knowledge that if the arrow fired from the outskirts of Lobinden had missed its target by an inch, Toruviel aep Shihiel would be dead. In her youth, she despised any elf who _chose_ to live and die amongst dh'oine. She cast her eyes to the sky and let out a bitter laugh. Seherim of Lobinden proved himself better than she—firing the arrow, leaving the child, helping her return to Vergen. She would see the robed elf occasionally from a distance. In the early days of Cedric's betrayal, she was ordered to keep him under surveillance. After several weeks of observing the elf drink himself into a stupor, she reported to Iorveth that he was no longer a threat.

What _did_ interest her were the times when Cedric would communicate with the locals—dwarves, elves, peasant dh'oine. Two in particular would linger on the observation platform, happy to sit while the inebriated Aen Seidhe regaled them with tales of the forest. The elf Seherim and his partner, Moril, were patient and compassionate company who, much to Toruviel's frustration, allowed Cedric to wallow in his demons into the early hours of the morning. Every night the three of them sat together until one day three became two. The woman, Moril, disappeared. No one knew when, how, or why, not even Cedric. But Toruviel did. She saw the exchange take place, saw the villager hand the elven girl over to one of Loredo's guards in exchange for a mere handful of orens. Toruviel returned to camp, unconcerned. She continued to watch as Seherim fell to pieces on the platform, night after night, Cedric consoling him with wise words of the ancients. She said nothing. When Seherim told her what became of Moril, she feigned sleep. Toruviel would remember that night as they closed in on Vergen's ravines. It was the first time in many years she'd shed tears. They burned her cheeks and dampened Seven's mane. Through it all, the persistent truth attacking her from all sides: this simple elf who fought for no cause but to merely live in peace was good and true and noble and everything she thought herself to be but was not.

"Any more and she'll drown herself."

Toruviel jumped up and greeted Seherim, the latter easing Seven away from the trough with an amused expression. His uncovered eye seemed to illuminate all the brighter in contrast to the eye-patch. A different eye, she noted, kinder than Iorveth's and incapable of her commander's cruelty.

"Greedy girl," he said and Toruviel forced a smile. "Though it's good to see her so enthusiastic. I've news I believe will be of great interest to you."

Seven nudged her way between them and Toruviel draped herself across the warm back, the unkempt coat bristling against her cheek. "Indeed?"

"Your Saskia is cured." Toruviel blurted out something incomprehensible as Seherim held up a hand. "Another piece of news travels from the market square. A scout reported seeing your commander by the burned village not three hours ago."

The look of surprise faded into something indecipherable. "He was alone?"

Seherim hesitated. "I've not heard of any other accompanying him."

Toruviel swallowed her discomfort and sent an appreciative nod. When Seven decided the thorn-bush held more attraction she placed a hand on the elf's shoulder. "Will you return to Lobinden?"

"Your fight is not mine," he replied and allowed the hand to slip away. Toruviel frowned as he needlessly reminded her of the child that awaited him.

"I take my leave tomorrow at dawn," he continued and averted his eye to Seven's muzzle flinching on connection with a thorn. Wordlessly, Toruviel wrapped her arms around him. Caught off guard, Seherim's hands floated awkwardly before coming to rest on her shoulder blades. It lasted only a moment.

Toruviel hastened towards the Scoia'tael hideout. Pain in her left leg shot up her side and, under the eyes of several elves, she stumbled against a tree with shallow breaths.

"You should rest," came a soft voice. She clenched her fists against the bark and glared at the witcher exiting one of the smaller shacks.

"Thank you, I'm fine."

It'd been five days since her return and she'd never known her body to heal at this slow a rate. Despite the warning, Geralt helped her towards the main shack and, for better or worse, Toruviel accepted the offer gladly. Welcoming help was only a sign of weakness for those blinded by hubris. She was many things but vanity was not a trait she claimed to possess.

"Iorveth returns?"

"Already here," said Geralt.

"And Saskia?"

Two Scoia'tael moved aside and they entered the shack. "Fully recovered, though Philippa's still refusing visitors."

Toruviel hissed as he unknowingly dug the hilt of his sword into a particularly tender spot above her hip. She shrugged off Geralt's support and strode to Iorveth who sat by the fire, fingers steepled in deep contemplation. As she kneeled in front of him she noted the lack of bandana and shot Geralt a warning look. The witcher was unfazed and leant against the rotting mantelpiece. There was, and always had been, a peculiar urge to protect her commander when he removed his bandana. Not in front of the others but… No, Geralt was different. He was more like them than he cared to admit. And she knew the cloth only came off around those considered trustworthy. Iorveth himself would have none of it. He'd scold her for allowing past grudges to hinder mere practicality—the scar needed to breathe on occasion, of course—and she'd nod, understanding, but still hesitant to reveal to outsiders the extent of the damage done by a fellow Scoia'tael. The memory hadn't lost it sting, nor its vividness and she could recall the day with such clarity it felt like a fresh blow every time: the moment Iorveth took a stand, when she made her allegiance known, when Yaevinn changed in her eyes forever. Kneeling in front of Iorveth now, she berated herself for such selfish thoughts. _She'd_ not lost an eye. Not long after the fallout, during a particularly cruel bout of self-reproach, her new commander assured her feelings were justified, she having lost something of far greater significance.

Toruviel gave a cursory glance for sign of any major injury—nothing life-threatening, clearly, all the damage bound up into one battered body to the point where the pain seemed evenly distributed across the skin and underneath. Iorveth gestured to the seat next to him and, for whatever reason, she looked up at Geralt for a second opinion.

Iorveth waved her off. "Tá me go maith, Toruviel—" then, addressing Geralt—"I see you got the ingredients." There was no expression on his face, simply a nothingness as he stared into the fire. Toruviel studied him closer hoping to find the same bitterness hiding beneath the swollen skin. Would finding it justify emotions she already knew to be unjust? With a sigh, she sat back and stared at Geralt.

"It wasn't easy," he replied with a calmness that frustrated them, however accustomed they were to it. No, it _wasn't_ easy. "Saskia's cured and healing at a faster rate than most dh'oine."

"The desire to survive provides one with a strength beyond understanding," offered Toruviel.

Iorveth exchanged a look with the witcher as he spoke, low and deliberate, "There was a rose of remembrance in Vergen."

Not a question, Geralt knew, but a challenge. With a nod, he said, "Turns out Philippa's apprentice was a Nilfgaardian spy who came across Triss in the ravines. She stole the rose and…"

Slowly, reluctantly, the frustration ebbed as Geralt told them the fate of Triss Merigold. Toruviel shot Iorveth a look under her lashes. Artefact compression was powerful magic, indeed.

"I'm sorry, Geralt. We can say Saskia is alive, at least," said Toruviel, thoughts drifting to Rusa. She'd refrained from questioning Iorveth as to her whereabouts but now, in the silence, she decided to steer the conversation.

Iorveth cut in, visibly distressed. "You say Letho reached Serrit and Auckes before the messenger?"

"They escaped unharmed," replied Geralt, the ambiguity as insulting as it was unnecessary. Iorveth's jaw tightened and his fingers flexed against the arm rests uneasily. He glanced at the elf next to him, sitting upright, hands in her laps, colour drained from her cheeks.

Geralt wasted no time. "You haven't had a chance to explain yourself—your alliance with Letho,"—Toruviel shot him an incredulous look—"This is a good time."

Iorveth pinched the bridge of his nose and after a strained silence, conceded. "I suppose I owe it to you, Geralt. I don't know who they are, exactly, nor who they're working for. I met Letho two months ago. He'd escaped his pursuers in Aedirn, found me, and suggested we trade services. Toruviel voiced her concerns."

"Letho offered the heads of Foltest and Henselt in exchange for our scouts and forest hideaways. This is not something one turns down easily," she said, voice laced with compassion for her commander.

"And Serrit and Auckes? When did they come into the picture?"

"They were supposed to kill Henselt," said Iorveth. "My warriors were to help them. As you know, this never came to pass."

Geralt nodded and after a moment's hesitation, remarked, "Most likely the three of them are on the other side of the mist. Along with Triss and the Blue Stripes…"

Toruviel waved a dismissive hand. " _He_ is not our concern. Iorveth—you must tell us how you escaped. Where's Rusa?"

"With Roche."

The suddenness of his reply, the indifference of it, the way he stared at them as if this information wasn't surprising… Iorveth returned his gaze to the fire and left the two of them to struggle through their confusion.

"She betrayed us."

He bit back his annoyance. Toruviel's outburst wasn't the cause but the knowledge that the dh'oine currently rode with Vernon Roche. Her hurried explanations in Vizima's dungeon did nothing to assuage his resentment. _The little dog reunited with her master._ Faint and barely able to stand, he'd mustered enough energy to make his feelings known as Rusa struggled to untie his bonds. She pushed his hands away roughly.

" _There's no room in this war for petty grudges!"_

 _Iorveth turned on her with an accusing finger. Broken, Rusa noted, but he didn't seem to notice. The muffled sound of alarm bells found its way through the dungeons and she stared at him beseechingly. To her surprise, he allowed himself to be supported and led through the tunnels. Rusa felt his breath against her ear and she strained to understand him through the wheezing._

" _During his first mission as commander, he ambushed one of my units, cut it down to the last elf. Surprised me for the first and last time—"_

" _So it's a personal matter," she snapped. "Vengeance—a theme straight out of Dandelion's ballads."_

" _The safety of the Scoia'tael demands his death! Of the commanders first appointed to such units, he's the only one still alive." With the last shred of strength, Iorveth grabbed the back of her neck and demanded she face him. A small shaft of light trickled through the door that would lead them to the outskirts of the main square. "If you go with him, you are the enemy."_

" _I'm doing this_ for _the Scoia'tael! For Vergen!" Rusa exhaled sharply and raised her hands between them. "Roche can help."_

 _The girl had taken leave of her senses. "To serve what purpose? Vergen's? You're a fool, Rusa Elyot, if you think Vernon Roche possesses an ounce of altruism. The man will stop at nothing to get what he wants and this is why he has to die."_

 _Rusa considered the fact she'd never seen Iorveth so impassioned as he was now, standing before her, exhausted, bleeding, broken and on the verge of collapse. In another circumstance she'd admire his tenacity and remind herself that_ this _is why he commanded the loyalty of so many._

 _For now, though, she felt small and angry. "You do realize that a dozen others will replace him when he's gone? Possibly dirtier foes, possibly worse."_

" _Better to have a known enemy, you say?" he asked, all sincerity lost behind a sneer. "That doesn't apply to Vernon. A more determined demon has never walked upon this earth—" he raised a hand to silence her—"The longer he is active, the better he gets_. _"_

" _We can use that determination to our benefit!" countered Rusa. "Roche knows the deal. If Vergen falls, Temeria is next."_

 _He pointed to his chest and a pronounced spasm shot through his scar. "See these emblems? Temerian lilies, that's all I lack. I've defeated the commanders of all the Special Forces in the North. Roche's death will serve to further unite the Scoia'tael."_

 _Rusa regarded him coolly and spoke with an indifference that would have chilled any other. "It's ironic the Aen Seidhe wish to kill the last of a dying breed."_

 _Iorveth returned with a look of such open disgust that Rusa had to tighten her lips to keep from crying out. His face held the same imperious gaze despite the damage. She felt her knees begin to tremble and blamed the exhaustion. He nodded towards the door but gripped her arm tightly when she made to move._

" _Know that when this is all over, he will die." And then, refusing to soften at the withered look on her face, "I must put an end to it."_

 _In the end, she merely nodded and held the rose between them. "This belongs to you."_

The shack was silent apart from the low crackling of the fire. Toruviel slumped forward over her knees with a hand to her mouth, lost in her thoughts. Even the slightest crease was visible on Geralt's brow. Iorveth let them stew a while longer—the journey to Vergen certainly hadn't provided him with peaceful thinking time, either—before Toruviel rose to join Geralt by the fire.

"After everything?" she whispered.

It was a careless question and not the kind Iorveth would usually attribute to someone so stoic. It was not the time to indulge in the frenzy of emotion that, admittedly, he himself was struggling to suppress. He was glad, then, to see her wringing hands come to a stop with a small, concentrated frown. Toruviel would think of Flotsam, the moment she learnt of the betrayal by one of her own, Rusa pleading for the elf's freedom despite her own confinement. She would remind herself of all these things and reconsider.

When Iorveth finally described his escape—unable to mask his contempt as he recounted the final argument—Toruviel turned on him with an uncompromising stare, declaring, "Her reasons are just."

"But equally unrealistic." Iorveth caught Geralt's eye. "Like most, the Cintran Volunteers disbanded after the war. It was merely a temporary alliance. She'll find nothing but disappointment."

Geralt's thoughts flashed to Flotsam, he and Triss in the elven baths as Roche bashed his way through the ruins, Rusa lagging behind, lips taut. _Finding those I seek is a specialty of mine_. There was an undeniable truth to this. "Roche doesn't settle for anything less than what he wants."

Iorveth's jaw set. Knowing Henselt now commanded another two thousand soldiers burned in the back of his mind. It pained him to admit, "I hope you're right." And, suddenly, with renewed energy, "We leave tomorrow at dusk to gather more reinforcements."

Toruviel's insistence that he rest was without its usual fervency. Both knew what had to be done and only Iorveth could achieve it.

"Where?" chimed Geralt.

The elf reveled in the warm air against his skin before readjusting his bandana. "Four Scoia'tael units await in hiding to the east—" a subtle glance in Toruviel's direction—"Time to summon them—Yaevinn included."

Toruviel took a moment to digest this as Geralt discussed his plan to lift the curse.

"Will you return in time?" he asked.

Iorveth nodded. "I must."

Alone in the shack, he tossed the rose onto the hearth. He needed to visit Saskia and thank her. He'd scold her for taking such a risk, gently but firmly. His life was not worth the sacrifice. She would stand before him, concerned for anyone but herself, face beautiful and brave as she listened carefully to his report. He stared as a stray ember singed its first petal, the others tired but alive, stubborn despite their impending death.

"Bloede dh'oine!"

Iorveth brushed the rose out of harm's way and headed for Saskia's quarters.

* * *

 **Maribor – present day**

Considering Maribor was the second largest city in Temeria, Rusa was shocked to find herself the centre of scrutinizing glares and whispers from the outskirts of the city all the way to the gates of the keep.

"Thousands of people yet they're only interested in us," she said as Roche handed over their horse. He threw her the shawl generously offered by Henrietta as they left the inn. A gift, the maid confessed with a blush, before handing the commander exactly nothing. It was bound with ribbons so pretty Rusa couldn't bring herself to unravel it. She scrunched the material to her face and inhaled longingly. It held the scent of warm broth and apple blossom. She closed her eyes and let a smile drift across her face. Roche shoved the blanket from Vizima's stables under her nose and she trailed behind him, sneezing violently.

"We're an interesting pair," he noted amiably and gestured to an apple cart. Rusa pushed past him.

"Let's just get to the keep."

Roche let her lead—he being much less likely to lose her in the crowd—and observed the expressions of those who studied her as they passed. The townsfolk exhibited a casual interest, indifference for the most part occasionally disrupted by a raised eyebrow and some vague displeasure. Or was that aimed at him? Either way, Rusa was on the receiving end. He acknowledged the fact that being in his company meant she was subjected to all the glares he'd grown accustomed to over the years. Not that she seemed to care. _She'd be no better off with the elf_ , and he inwardly chastised the woman for her choice of company, himself included.

To Rusa's surprise, the keep was not the embattled, dilapidated structure she'd imagined it to be since the siege but a spectacular showcase of elven architecture, similar to Vizima. Though, what was left of Vizima after the attack was hard to say. Perhaps it lay wasted, in cinders. Twice Roche had succumbed to a rage about it, wondering out loud why "that fucking dragon wouldn't just fuck off!" Rusa brought it to his attention that he seemed to always be around when the dragon attacked, hinting at the possibility that the creature bared some ill-will towards the Commander of the Blue Stripes, in particular. Roche took great pleasure in reminding her that she'd also been present during both attacks.

"And Geralt," she noted in an attempt to allay the absurd fear tightening in her chest.

The two guards posted by the bridge reluctantly moved aside as Roche barged through with barely a glance. Similar to Cintra, the keep itself was a miniature city no less crowded despite the difference in size. Roche turned to her suddenly and rested a hand on her shoulder.

"Remember what we discussed," he ordered, prodding a finger into her chest. "Jurkast seems friendly but know that you've never met a more deceitful bastard."

Rusa compressed her lips and removed his hand, allowing it to linger just under her elbow. "What about Loredo?"

"Deceit requires a brain—something the commandant lacked. The Duke's a thug but he's cunning and not afraid to severely maim or kill to get what he wants." She made to interrupt and Roche narrowed his eyes. "You're about to tell me I've just described myself—there's no need."

Rusa pushed past him again and called over her shoulder, "Duke Roche thinks highly of himself!"

Word of their arrival had spread by the time they reached the doors to the main hall. A barrage of soldiers jogged past them unblinkingly and formed two lines on either side of the room. The hall was draped with red and white Temerian crests, weapons and murals gleaming from their wall fixtures. Several nobles were scattered around the room with the men stretched out languidly on plush chaise lounges as the women cast them furtive looks behind silk fans. The flurry of yellow gowns and blue waistcoats made Rusa oddly nostalgic. A momentary relapse, she assured herself, and stood proud in what she knew to be basic but practical clothing. She made out the vague figure in the distance, lounged on a throne with what looked to be a serving boy washing his feet. Silhouetted by the vast amount of light streaming in from arched windows she withheld a gasp as Foltest appeared through the haze. At least, the image of Foltest. The cousins certainly shared an uncanny resemblance.

Jurkast regarded them lazily as they approached before fixing his gaze on Roche who, for his part, seemed unfazed by the likeness. The latter gave a small bow, which Rusa copied earning a titter from someone behind.

"Duke Jurkast."

The man stared at them a moment longer before dismissing the serving boy. "Vernon Roche," he replied and the sneer reverberated through the hall. Hushed whispers silenced completely as the Duke cast an appraising look over the woman. "Who's this, Vernon, some strumpet off the streets? Hardly fit for a royal audience, wouldn't you say?"

Roche inclined his head as Rusa dug her nails into her skirt. "Agreed—if she were a strumpet off the streets." He gestured for her to step forward. "Rusa Elyot of Cintra. We travel from Vizima in need of your assistance."

Jurkast licked his lips and sent her a wink. "Was a joke, love, you understand—" he fell serious—"A Cintran noblewoman and the Commander of the Blue Stripes marauding around the countryside. Something you don't see everyday."

The slip—was it a slip?—was not lost on either of them. Roche cleared his throat.

"My condolences regarding the King's untimely death."

The Duke's face fell into a scowl. "My good cousin. A bad way to go." He brightened considerably. "We've a new Regent now, lest we forget. Old Natalis—he'll see it through."

Exactly what 'it' was, they were never told. Jurkast barked out a laugh, eyes darkening, and added, "This must be hard for you, Vernon. Losing the man who was the closest thing to a father you've ever known. Gone are the days of little Vernon the Whoreson, eh?"

Rusa could hardly believe it when Roche nodded and pressed on, "Henselt's gathered another two thousand soldiers and now commands an army of seven thousand. Vergen's all that stands between Kaedwen and Temeria."

Jurkast's jaw was slack as he gave a round of applause. "Bravo, commander. Bit wooden, though. Try again—more _feeling_ this time!" He pumped the air with his fist and sat up expectantly. Roche stiffened and Rusa watched with dismay as a sarcastic smile crept onto his face.

"Duke Jurkast," she cut in, earning a look of disapproval from both men. "What Roche says is true. Henselt's amassed a great army whilst Vergen's numbers pale in comparison. If Vergen is taken, the Kaedwenis will sweep through Temeria. We come to Maribor in the hopes that you can assist us by providing valuable information."

Jurkast sat back, then forward, and back again, clicking his fingers rapidly with a chuckle. A strange sensation wormed its way up Rusa's spine. A small frown settled on Roche's face.

"Information, you say?" Jurkast made his suspicions known with a wide-eyed gesture in the commander's direction. "He'll want more. Never happy with what you're given, eh, Vernon?

"Depends on the offer."

Jurkast hummed an inane tune before asking, "How's my favorite Sorceress? Still fucking that mutant?"

Rusa recoiled as Roche replied, serenely, "I imagine so."

It suddenly dawned on her that Roche had no reason to suspect Triss's disappearance. A subtle glance from the commander, however, told her differently. Unsurprising since the man seemingly had eyes and ears in every nook and cranny of the North.

"Information is all we need," she hurried, unknowingly grabbing the material of Roche's sleeve. Something in the way the Duke spoke, in the way he stared straight through her. On the surface he seemed scattered but she couldn't believe him to be so careless. This, not only due to Roche's warning but the way the Duke currently narrowed his eyes at them; a predator waiting to strike but undecided as to whom was yet to be the prey. Maybe both. He need only give the signal and they'd be dead in a matter of seconds. Murdering the Commander of the Temerian Special Forces didn't seem like a smart move, politically speaking. Rusa groaned inwardly. She didn't possess that level of immunity.

"We need information regarding the whereabouts of Vissegerd." Jurkast squealed, eyebrows raised. Rusa pressed on, "I fought for the Cintran Volunteers during Brenna. At our best, we numbered around eight thousand. It is my—our—hope that we can find Vissegerd and, under his banner, gather support for Vergen."

Again, Roche cleared his throat to fill the silence. "You understand the pattern, Duke: Vergen falls, then Temeria, and we'd be foolish to think Henselt wouldn't risk provoking Nilfgaard by attacking Cintra. He attacks blindly, of course, a whore to his own ego. Also, because he's got his head so far up his fucking arse—" Rusa sent him a pleading look which he barely acknowledged—"Vergen has its walls but this alone is not enough. With greater numbers the city becomes a chokepoint in which we can mount a concentrated defense."

Jurkast's eyes danced between them. There was a desperation to him, like a child trying to rein in their impatience when handed a gift.

Rusa continued, "After Brenna, many of us called Temeria home. If we could gather even a thousand, I guarantee they'll want to fight."

The Duke nibbled his lip as he smiled. "Two things." The vision of Roche's face was almost too much to bear and he had to steady his breathing. "One: I care not for the welfare of rabble led by some peasant whore. Two: Vissegerd is dead."

He let out an orgasmic sigh and leaned forward in his seat. "I hear he has a daughter, though—an impudent little brat who caved under the pressure of her father's reputation and disappeared."

Rusa swallowed. Nothing but a dry scratch at the back of her throat. She glanced at Roche before asking the Duke where this daughter might be.

"Disappeared, love—you deaf?"

"No," she snapped. Her patience was wearing thin and by the look on Roche's face he'd lost his long before stepping foot in the hall.

Jurkast held up his hands in mock surrender. "Now, I don't like my guests leaving on such bitter terms. You see, Lady Elyot, unlike the man standing next to you, I'm a gentleman. Perhaps I've information for you still." He signaled towards the door and a serving maid left her post to join them. "You'll stay for the night—a feast in your honour!"

Roche refused outright to which Jurkast snorted derisively. "It's not your company I desire, Vernon. The lady will attend." There was nothing more dangerous than a man with charisma who knew how to wield it. "I insist you meet my son."

The guest wing was as decadent as the rest of the keep. Roche mumbled something about the Duke having a penchant for throwing extravagant feasts at the expense of the people.

"Wrings them dry of their goods for an unreasonably lowered price—including the surplus meant for their families." Roche held the door open as they stepped into a parlour scented with lavender and sage. The serving girl pulled back heavy drapes to reveal an exquisite stained glass window the colour of ruby and nightshade.

"That's the kind of behaviour to cause a revolt," Rusa replied, frowning as she traced an image of Jurkast in the glass. Roche drew up next to her as the maid reminded them to be ready by sundown.

"Perhaps. However, the Duke allows a certain amount of time to pass before demanding the same of them again."

"Power is tolerable only on condition that it mask a substantial part of itself," she said with a vague nod. The image turned out to be the Duke with a large pheasant draped over his shoulders, female figures in the distance waving him on. Rusa bit back a laugh.

Roche's lips lifted ever so slightly. "The words of a noble."

"Speaking of which," she set out on a determined pace around the room, "Jurkast knows who I am."

"How can you be certain?"

Rusa compressed her lips knowing full well what he was insinuating. " _Clearly_ this hair cut isn't a trend among the nobility."

"The Duke believes there's only two types of women: whores and half-whores. The second belong to nobility. When I implied you weren't some girl off the streets, he came to his own conclusions."

"He's unstable," she declared, earning a nod from Roche. Their eyes met as she mumbled, "I want to believe that."

By which she meant 'I want to believe _you_ '. He frowned when she began to chew her bottom lip. The look on her face told him everything he needed to know. "You'd be better off leaving this alone."

Rusa held his stare long enough for him to understand he'd caused offence. Roche nipped the inevitable argument in the bud. As much as it annoyed him, he would approach things diplomatically for a change. "Sometimes it's better not knowing."

"Says the man who insists on knowing everyone else's deepest secrets!" she snapped and he pressed his lips into a thin line. "Through _manipulation and torture_ , I might add."

"Jurkast said something offhandedly and now you're imagining the possibilities—"

" _Imagining_!"

"—in less than an hour you've convinced yourself this man knows something you don't." Roche waited until her arms fell to her sides. "You're thinking of your father, of where he might be, and if Jurkast knows of his whereabouts."

Rusa exhaled sharply through her nose and turned towards the fireplace. Roche studied her profile, half-shadowed and grim, as she closed her eyes to the world. They'd travelled to Maribor for a purpose. To find someone, yes, but not _him_. Rusa recalled their conversation in Flotsam. _Perhaps when this is all over, I'll try to find him…_

"I'm sorry for what Jurkast said earlier—about Foltest."

Roche grunted in response, adding, "It's the truth."

"You kept your temper."

He joined her next to the fire, arms barely touching. "I'd beaten him to a bloody fucking pulp ten times over in my head. Perhaps when we leave I'll see it done properly."

She peered at Roche from under her lashes. _Sometimes it's better not knowing_. He'd stayed true to his word back in Zavada. Rusa set her jaw in determination and swung back and forth on her heels. She smiled inwardly.

"I've nothing to wear to the feast."

* * *

Three hours passed before the Duke saw fit to call for his son. Rusa wondered why the boy hadn't been present from the beginning but thought it best not to question the temperamental despot.

"Wine?"

The two of them sat at the head of a long table adorned with nobles talking animatedly on either side. Plates had been discarded carelessly across and under the table, the telling alcohol stains seeping through shirts and blouses and skin. Three hours and an endless stream of wine created a scene straight from Flotsam's inn. Alcohol—the one thing to destroy any illusion of respectability. These nobles thought themselves better than the peasants they trod all over. _Animals disguised in fine silk_. A trio of lutists danced and played a merry tune off to the side. Men and women clothed in tight satin wound their way around the room charming the audience with sapphire ribbon wands and poses that caused Rusa to choke on her drink. Jurkast regarded her with a fondness during those moments, the heat of his gaze stifling in a hall already bathed in firelight.

Rusa shifted in the corset clinging desperately to her ribs and declined the goblet. The Duke scowled playfully before bellowing something incoherent at one of the dancers.

"A shame," he slurred, bubbles of spit forming in the corner of his mouth. He wiped himself with the back of his sleeve. "The commander would've enjoyed himself. He seeks enjoyment elsewhere—the brothel perhaps"

"I doubt he'd enjoy himself here, Duke," she replied with a tight smile. Roche had sauntered off somewhere when the serving maid returned with the dress. Rusa batted away a ribbon as it teased her cheek. One of the male performers wormed his way around her with the flexibility of a—

"Oho! Seems you've got yourself an admirer!"

Jurkast gave a squeaky laugh as Rusa shoved the man's bulging genitals away from her face. The performer pouted dramatically and giggled when a man grabbed him from behind.

"You sound like my last wife," the Duke said and shielded their conversation with his hand. Rusa eyed the performer nervously as he disentangled himself. _Stay_. "Always disagreeing."

She hesitated on realising she'd not even considered the man had a wife or a 'last' one, at that. "Will your wife be joining us this evening?"

"Not likely," he replied with a grin, which Rusa returned in kind. "She's dead."

Simultaneously fighting the blush that crept to her cheeks and the urge to smack the Duke in his inebriated face, she lowered her chin. "My apologies."

"Dead to me, at least," he laughed and Rusa turned to the wall in exasperation. "Perhaps she still lives. No loss. A decent woman wouldn't simply get up and leave her husband, would she?"

 _Well, you're also insane._ "No, indeed." She gaped up at the ceiling and inhaled sharply. The bones of the corset crushed against her own. Yellow with purple inlay, the gown was exquisite in the way it fitted her body. She hooked a finger into the lace and gave a rough tug. Fitted was an understatement.

"Nor would a decent man leave his wife," he continued, suddenly serious. "That dress you're wearing. She wore it the day before she ran away."

Rusa screamed internally at the thought of being clothed in the gown of a dead woman. _Not dead_ , she reminded herself. She made to chide the Duke for his indecency but was saved the effort as a servant heralded the arrival of Jurkast's son. The boy couldn't have been more than fifteen. As for being a sickly mouse of an heir, Rusa conceded Roche to be right on that count. She expected the Duke to welcome the boy but instead he sat, beady eyes boring into his son as he shuffled awkwardly towards them. The festivities paused as his footsteps skittered along the cobblestones. In respect, Rusa couldn't tell. She saw how his cheeks reddened under a mop of brown hair and made to greet him. Jurkast wrapped a hand around her wrist and she half-fell back into her seat.

Several painstaking moments later and the Duke finally rose to welcome his son. The boy jerked forward as a result of a jovial slap on the back and splayed one hand across the table for balance. Jurkast caught the other as it followed for extra support.

"Lady Elyot—my son, Corley of Maribor. Lady Rusa Elyot of Cintra, Corley, show some respect."

A red welt was forming on Corley's wrist as he gave a small bow. Rusa returned with a curtsy and held back a sigh of relief when the Duke ordered the music and frivolity to continue. She gladly accepted a goblet as the performers stretched and geared up for another show. Amidst the lecherous flirtations of nobles and banging lutes, Corley sat at his father's side, wringing his wrists under the table. His skin was almost translucent, small blue veins visible underneath. _Like a newborn fish_. Rusa eyed her goblet suspiciously. Certainly not the Mettina Rose she was used to. The corset became a furnace.

"Corley takes after his Mother, you see," Jurkast drawled. Rusa swished the acidic drink between her teeth. "My second wife was a lover of the arts. Literature, ballads, all that rubbish. Rubbed off on our son, unfortunately."

Rusa peered across at Corley who didn't meet her eyes. His cheeks reddened further, his pale skin blotched with patches of scarlet that resembled a bruise. _Poor little fish_.

"I've a friend who's a poet," she commented in an attempt to steady both herself and the conversation. "Dandelion."

Suddenly, Corley spoke up. "Truly? You are acquainted with Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove?"

"I…Sorry?" Rusa frowned into her goblet. It struck her then that she'd never asked Dandelion as to his real name. He was just Dandelion.

"The great Bard, Dandelion," Corley continued, awestruck. "I hope to follow in his footsteps and study at Oxenfurt Academy. I…" he trailed off on receiving a warning look from his father.

Jurkast glanced at Rusa apologetically. "Words not fit for Temeria's next king, I know. Soon to be changed, though, don't worry about that." He caressed the back of Corley's neck. Rusa watched how the tips of his fingers turned white. The boy stared ahead, one small vein pulsing violently in his temple.

The arrogance of the man! To insist his boy was the rightful heir to the throne when Anaïs and Boussy still lived! Rusa took a polite sip and reminded herself that—by the gods!—this was to be her last. A stream of sweat trickled down between her breasts and soaked the corset. She shifted uncomfortably. Keep it together—the Duke has information. A strange laugh escaped her lips. _Did_ he even have any worthwhile information? Whilst she flounced around in this stupid frock and Roche skulked around the dungeons, or whatever he was doing—probably spouting abuse at some noblewoman whilst punching her lover in the balls because, why the fuck not?—Rusa confessed her doubts as to whether the Duke was sincere. Which of course, he wasn't. Which she and Roche both knew but simply didn't have any other information to go on. The lutes were twanging away seemingly without rhythm. The wine, she thought, this bloody wine. Zoltan would drink her under the table whilst Dandelion de Lettenhoffer penned a ballad about Geralt's smouldering cat-eyes—gods, that man again! the same bulge making its way towards her, swerving fluidly through the crowd of hungry hands.

"Water," she croaked and the Duke seemed surprised by her presence. "Water, please."

As the cool liquid smoothed her insides she was able to tune in to the low conversation between father and son. Tense, awkward, depressing. Clearly the Duke was a man who paraded his son around for all to see only to tear him down with veiled insults and abuse. Rusa shook her head, vision slowly working its way back to normal, the dull vibration in her temples lessening with every sip.

"Dance!" roared a noble.

"How I _love_ a dance! Did I tell you my Lucille—"

"My lord—"

"Agreed," Jurkast chimed with a grip on his son's neck. Rusa scanned the noble faces, all unmoved by such behaviour. She felt sick and not from drink. "Corley, offer your hand to Lady Elyot."

Rusa cut through the pretence for the boy's sake. "I'd be honoured, my lord."

Surprisingly, Corley was able to take the lead and Rusa found herself actually enjoying his company. He was a meek, timid boy but possessed the decency his father sorely lacked. Halfway through the second dance, he gained confidence and began regaling her with scandalous tales of Maribor's wealthy elite.

"Petunia de Vallé—over there—the victim of a sordid affair between her husband and his lover."

"A tragedy!" Rusa laughed.

Corley smiled with teeth small, straight, and even whiter than his skin. "Quite so. But that's not the best part—" Rusa's eyes brightened mischievously—"Petunia ran off with his lover who is—" he jerked his head to right—"The man currently playing lead lute."

"No!"

"Tis the truth, my Lady!"

Rusa smiled and brought her gaze to his wrist. Corley rested his eyes on the reddish pulp gathering under the skin.

"I bruise easily," he said and the pair sobered immediately. It was a candid comment to make to someone practically a stranger. Corley met her eyes and Rusa was taken aback by the colour—so blue and so different from his father's. She returned a reassuring nod and focused on the couple twirling behind them.

Corley leant in close. "My father isn't telling you everything."

Rusa snorted then apologised. "I don't think he has _anything_ to tell us."

"On the contrary, he's told you many things."

"Are you…defending him? And how do you even know?"

Corley shook his head adamantly. "Servants like to gossip; I like to listen. Vissegerd _is_ dead but his daughter lives. Father claims she disappeared but I know where she is." The Duke was sauntering towards them, spilling the contents of his goblet with each step. Rusa implored his son to make haste but he looked pained, as if the oncoming presence of his father was enough to silence him completely.

"She lived _here_ , in the keep. Forced to wed my father in secret. I helped her escape."

Rusa rushed to collect her thoughts, the distance between them and Jurkast closing by the second. She steadied her voice. "I need a name." Corley hesitated and she stamped her foot. "Tell me!"

"Young lovers, fighting?" The Duke huddled them together and let out a pleasant groan. Rusa eyed Corley through the fat fingers splayed across her face. The boy refused to meet her eyes, the dull terror from a lifetime of abuse settling on his features.

"Can't have that now, can we," continued Jurkast and he led them towards the side door. "The feast is at its end, I'm afraid. I _know_ , Lady Elyot, I know—so soon!"

His soothing whispers were enough to make Rusa gag. The three of them stood in the hallway, two guards posted either end. Jurkast separated and inclined his head towards the staircase.

"Up you go, Rusa Elyot. See to it you leave by dawn." Just when she'd decided the Duke to be blind drunk he eyed her knowingly, with a look only a sober man could muster. "Put a leash on your commander and be sure to take him with you." And then, the lazy smile of a careless drunkard. "Drag him through the _fucking dirt_."

Rusa tried to catch Corley's eye but to no avail. The Duke's laughter rang out through the hall as she climbed the steps. Her stomach turned to led when she heard the distinctive sound of skin against skin. The boy didn't even make a sound.

* * *

Roche arrived late into the night, carelessly discarding his weapons as he strode through the parlour. He glanced into the bedroom as he passed and did a double-take at the puff of yellow lying face-down on the bed. On hearing him come in Rusa cradled her head and brought herself into the parlour, pushing past him in the doorway to take a seat by the fire. She stretched one hand towards the warmth and then gingerly removed the other. The pounding in her head had, thankfully, subsided for the most part and she was able to handle the dull pain between her eyes.

"I don't know what they put in Mariborian wine," she murmured and glared at the smirk forming on his face. "Poison? Do they put poison in Mariborian wine?"

"I wouldn't put it past the Duke."

Roche leant against the mantelpiece and Rusa got the distinct impression he was about to interrogate her. Completely sober now, she laughed at the thought of him trying to do so several hours ago. That wouldn't have gone down well for either of them.

"You missed a delightful feast."

Roche was firm when he said, "I went to the barracks."

"Inciting a riot?" she asked and stifled a yawn.

"Something like that."

"Jurkast said you were probably at the brothel."

"Why the fuck would I visit a brothel?"

Rusa smiled and spread her legs across the carpet. It was an amusing sight; a noblewoman in a fancy gown slumping in her chair, double-chinned, breathing heavily. She threw Roche an apologetic look. "Too much food." And then, with a struggling breath, she gestured to her corset. "I may have broken a rib."

Roche considered telling her to change but checked himself. It had been her idea in the first place to wear it and he couldn't care less about the suffering it brought on. He took in her appearance with one quick appraisal and became even more frustrated at how she could sit there like a lout but still exude nobility.

"I met the Duke's son. He wants to be a poet."

A loud laugh escaped Roche's lips. "Jurkast's great Temerian heir, indeed."

"It's not a life the boy desires," Rusa argued, a surprising amount of protectiveness surging through her. Roche raised his eyebrows and she waved him off. "Near the end of the feast, while we were dancing, Corley was trying to tell me something. Jurkast interrupted us before he had a chance to explain."

Roche waited patiently for her to get to the point. She was pacing the room now, a mirror image of himself. The thought disturbed more than it comforted.

"Turns out Jurkast told the truth—at least, to some degree. Vissegerd is dead and he has a daughter—" she turned on Roche with a bemused expression—"she lived _here_ , Roche, in the keep. Jurkast's wife—his _last_ wife—was Vissegerd's daughter. Corley helped her escape. The Duke was referring to his wife's disappearance during our audience earlier. That wife being Vissegerd's daughter—"

Roche held up a hand. "No need to repeat."

She let out a long exhale and shuddered. "Which reminds me—this dress I'm wearing is the one she wore before escaping."

"I've no knowledge of this alliance ever taking place."

With a frown, Rusa admitted, "Corley mentioned it was done in secrecy."

"The Duke undoubtedly has his reasons," muttered Roche. "I take it he interrupted your little liaison at the most inconvenient moment?"

"When I was trying to get a name, yes. Although, Corley seemed hesitant to give it to me and not simply because his father was approaching. And it wasn't a 'little liaison'."

"The boy's protecting the identity of someone he cares about," he replied, mechanically, efficiently, with years of expertise. This one certainly wasn't hard to crack. "We are no closer than when we arrived."

Rusa's temper flared. "You've returned with precisely _no_ information, whatsoever!"

"You sound very certain."

"Oh! Please, enlighten me."

"Ask politely."

"I will _not_. I sat through four hours of awful music, shit company, and spent half my time escaping the crotch of a man in a suit that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. All the while, the Duke slobbered over me and clobbered his own son. So, _fuck_ you."

Rusa stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door. Roche's jaw tightened as he heard a muffled scream. He'd leave her there to indulge in her tantrum. A petulant child who sulked when she didn't get her way. A spasm of conscience seared through him. It wasn't true and he knew it. In truth, he knew less than her. All he'd been able to catch whilst meandering around the barracks was that the Duke had a wife who disappeared into the forests of Maribor. Some claimed she remained in the area, in disguise, in hiding, in… It was a bunch of fucking nonsense.

When Rusa didn't emerge half an hour later, Roche strode through the door. She stood by the reading desk, bathed in the soft glow of the lamp, struggling with a hook on the back of her dress. She glared at him before turning away and resting her hands on her hips. A reluctant ask for help.

"What took you so long?"

There was nothing seductive in the way she said it. Roche bit back his annoyance and began unlacing an intricate knot in the middle of the corset. "You told me in no uncertain terms to go plough myself." Her back shivered under his finger tips and he knew she was smiling.

"Well, when you're finished here…"

Roche tugged the knot free and went to work on the smaller ones woven throughout. "This is so fucking—" Rusa stumbled into his chest as a stubborn bow finally loosened. "Why the fuck do you wear this thing?" He shook her like a rag doll and she gripped the desk.

"I attended a royal feast," she snapped, one arm collapsing after a particularly rough tug. Roche muttered something under his breath as the last bow came undone. He pulled a strand of her hair for good measure and took his seat on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. Rusa turned to him, one hand holding the corset against her chest. The scar peeped out just above the rim. She regarded him with that heady mixture of naiveté and wilfulness. There was a rawness to her actions, untainted by lessons in seduction. Roche desired her all the more for it.

He opened his arms slightly and said, "Come here."

Rusa hesitated and he dropped his arms impatiently. He made to move but not before she let out a strange noise in the back of her throat. Roche smiled inwardly as she approached and turned to sit in his lap. _Cradled like a father would his daughter_. He spun her around with a soft grunt and forced her to straddle him. Rusa's eyes brightened in the dull light. Then, without warning, she dropped her head on his shoulder.

"Roche, I'm tired."

Roche loosened his grip on her hips. Painfully, unable to hide the want in his voice, he said, "If you tell me you've suddenly developed a headache..."

Rusa let out a breathy laugh, the tickle on his skin almost unbearable. Roche tightened his grip. She smiled into his throat.

"Actually, I do have a headache, but that's not what I mean." She shifted her weight upwards so they were closer. Roche clenched his jaw as she grazed him there. "I'm tired of fighting this war and the feeling we can't win it. We leave here tomorrow with nothing but a jumbled tale of an unhappy daughter and wife. The only person who knows of her whereabouts is a young boy forced to hold his tongue in front of a father who beats him. It's true what you said. We're no closer than when we arrived."

The words felt hot and traitorous on her tongue. Roche pulled her back, a small frown on his face. "Finished?"

A furious blush crept onto her cheeks and she turned her head, eyes burning a hole in the wall. Roche dug his fingers into her chin and forced her to face him. She stared at him unflinchingly and he felt the familiar warmth in the pit of his stomach. He moved the other hand lower and pressed the small of her back until they were inches apart.

"It's not like you to complain."

"I complain all the time."

Roche repressed a smile and ran his thumb across the necklace. "True."

Rusa leaned back and allowed the corset to fall open in front of him. Roche traced the scar along her breast, gently at first, then with a little more force that made her wince. She shot him a dark look and he captured her mouth with a hunger he'd barely been able to restrain since Flotsam. A low growl emanated from the base of his throat as she reached under the chaperon and raked her nails along his scalp. A swift tug revealed a head of dark hair. Observing the jagged parting, Rusa returned her fingers to the long scar winding its way to the base of the skull. Roche stiffened under her touch and when she hesitated he held her wrists reassuringly.

"No, just…"

Rusa brought her lips to the raised skin and traced the pattern with small, delicate kisses. She gasped as his lips teased her breast, the heat of his tongue on the scar tissue causing her nails to dig in around his throat.

Roche adjusted them so their eyes met. "Cold?"

In a foolhardy attempt to convince him otherwise Rusa shook her head. Warm, heavy fingers tracked the goosebumps over her flesh. Roche reached for the shawl on the bed. The smell of apple blossom wafted between them as she shook the material and draped it over her shoulders. Roche's face fell serious as he picked something from the threads. A tiny, folded piece of faded parchment. He let Rusa snatch it away and open it hurriedly, eyes scanning the elegant scrawl.

A frown mingled with a smile, both battling for supremacy until the latter finally won out. Then, it was lost, the weight of the words sinking in. She looked up at Roche, horrified.

"A note from Henrietta."

He snorted. "Something rude, I imagine."

"She overheard our conversations at the inn," rushed Rusa, voice trembling as she reread the message. Roche grunted as she shoved the parchment in his face. He snatched her hand and brought the note to a readable distance. Rusa leaned into him, pointing to the last line, and he frowned impatiently when her breasts blocked his view.

"Can you—"

"Look, _here_."

Roche followed her finger as a breath caught in her throat.

" _My father, Vissegerd, is dead."_

* * *

A/N: Apparently, Rusa's a fan of Foucault - did anyone catch the quote? ;)


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Hi all - thank you for your patience. 50+ followers - thank you! I hope you're still enjoying the ride =)

Disclaimer: Uh...

* * *

The return journey to Henrietta's inn was uneventful. At least, to someone like Roche, who often found himself on the receiving end of royal vitriol. They'd been unable to seek Corley out before being practically exiled from the keep. Suffering from a heady mixture of rage and black humour, Jurkast saw to it that their departure be fit for a couple who, in his words, _flittered about like whores on parade._ To which Roche explained to Rusa in a fatherly tone, "Too much ankle on display", and yanked the hem of her skirt. Trumpets blasted from either side of the drawbridge as she stumbled after him, fingers hooked into the belt loop in a hasty attempt to rescue her dignity.

A heated argument over how to best manage their funds culminated in Rusa sitting atop a second horse, smiling, satisfied. The interminable look of superiority was enough to make Roche draw out negotiations inside the warmth of the stable master's office whilst her rider's posture slowly hunched over from the cold. Through a dusty window he could see her gesturing wildly, mouth opening and closing, beseeching him to make haste. It was all he could do not to laugh when her shawl came loose and soared towards the nearest bramble bush. There was a certain satisfaction on seeing the material struggle among the thorns. That shawl became a burden overnight.

After several exclamations of how freeing it felt to have a horse of her own, Roche was unsurprised to find himself holding two sets of reins as Rusa sat behind him, snoring lightly.

Now, in the stifling heat of the inn, he watched her interrogate Henrietta with a diplomacy he sorely lacked. Good thing, too. If he had it his way, Vissegerd's daughter would soon be joining her father.

"Oren for your thoughts?"

Rusa stared at him, eyebrows raised, a quill tapping incessantly on the table. Roche waited until they were alone.

"You believe this woman?"

They heard Henrietta shuffling around in the next room. Rusa frowned. "Strange story to make up, don't you think?"

Roche leaned into her, eyes dark and unreadable. "A stranger in a forest inn overhears a conversation. Suddenly, she's not the peasant woman she appears to be but the daughter of a celebrated war general."

"You didn't think it wise to voice your opinion _before_ we left the city?"

"Would you have listened?" He pressed a finger to her forehead and pushed himself upright. "Precisely. In the time it takes a whore to bend over, we're told this woman is not only Vissegerd's daughter, but a mage posing as an herbalist inn keep, locked away in Oxenfurt Academy during the wars like a—fucking hell—"

Henrietta reappeared in the doorway with a bundle of papers. Rusa eyed Roche warily as she took her seat opposite them. Frustration rolled off him in waves. When Henrietta asked after his health, Rusa nipped the exchange at the bud. The two had been at each other's throats since their arrival, Henrietta wearing her contempt for the Blue Stripes commander as a queen would her crown.

"I know what you do to women who disagree with you," she'd said amiably when Roche expressed his disapproval over her escape. The woman could have incited a war between Temeria and Cintra, if not for Jurkast being a negligent bastard who didn't give a damn about anything needing him to move beyond his halls. An exaggeration, of course, and Roche couldn't give a fuck the way she mumbled her concerns to the table.

"You were telling us about Jurkast," Rusa reminded. "How were you able to escape?"

Henrietta glanced over her shoulder and whispered, "A dimeritium band is a sure way to secure a mage. I was under lock and key, someone constantly on guard even while the rest of the keep slept. My hands were bound." Her voice dropped in pitch and trembled slightly. "It was Corley who… Not for weeks of trying, not for weeks of beatings on my behalf…" She averted her eyes under Roche's stare. "He has a disease of the blood. A simple scratch can be fatal. I'd give him advice, tell him what herbs could help stem the bleeding. But Jurkast would kill him if he so left the keep for more than a day."

Rusa nodded slowly, taking it in. "So you managed to remove the band. What then? A portal?"

"As luck would have it, Jurkast didn't bother appointing another advisor," replied Henrietta, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

Roche remained unimpressed but conceded all the same, "Breaking in a new sorceress requires effort and...training."

"And Triss would be difficult to replace," added Rusa, the skin around her eyes tightening at the tell-tale sting. "I must ask. Why not have Corley escape through the portal, as well?"

The smiled vanished. Henrietta looked appalled. "Jurkast couldn't give a damn about me. I was nothing to him. He said it himself: 'couldn't bag himself a noble'. Nevertheless, being Vissegerd's daughter I offered him a glimpse of potential power in Cintra. When this hope was extinguished, he turned his attention back to the matter at hand; something more important than the vanishings of a girl whose hand in marriage came with vague promises of power."

"You're referring to Jurkast's son," said Roche, his eyes cold and unforgiving.

"Corley's disappearance would not go unnoticed," she explained. "That's putting it politely."

"He knows you're here," said Rusa, unfolding her arms in an attempt to seem more approachable. "Corley visits from time to time?"

"I set up a portal occasionally, yes. He's due to arrive tonight. We have only each other…"

Henrietta sat back as the pair in front of her fell into an argument over Roche's "Again with the boy! The least of our concerns … the _fucking_ point … Vissegerd's magic daughter … Henselt's forces … _His_ magic whoreson … Dethmold's suspicions…" She was impressed by the way Rusa held her own. In a flurry of movement and groaning, she seemed to understand him, at least. To the untrained eye and ear, Roche spoke openly without concern. This, thought Henrietta, was an odd gesture for someone as duplicitous as Vernon Roche. It wasn't before long, however, that she noticed his sentences were merely fragments of the whole—enough for Rusa to comprehend but vague and incomplete for any other. For Henrietta, the names were unfamiliar and her cheeks burned over the realisation that, in comparison, she was a cloistered hermit unaware of the real world. She feigned a smile as the argument simmered to a close.

Rusa slammed a hand on the table and gripped the edge until her fingers turned white. She spoke slowly, through her teeth, "Corley will be disguised, I take it?"

"A simple illusion spell, nothing more," Henrietta confessed.

Roche began his regular pace around the room. The inn was quiet, secluded, with little need to worry about two drunken peasants in the corner. Rusa studied him for a while, the firm lines on his face, the clench of his jaw, the grim mouth. He paced like an animal confined to its cage. A strange sensation settled in her lower belly. Roche's thoughts were elsewhere. On Henselt, Dethmold… on the rest of the Blue Stripes. She snapped her eyes to Henrietta as he leant against the bar and fixed them with a hard stare.

"You overheard some our previous conversation," reminded Rusa. "You know what we plan to do."

Henrietta peered over her shoulder at Roche. "The Cintran Volunteers."

"Right. Clearly, you're able to help otherwise why send us the message?"

The hinges of the front door squeaked as a group of men tumbled out of the cold. An older gentleman gave a raucous laugh before shoving a dirty youth towards the fire grate. Food was ordered, drinks were spilled and Rusa waited with baited breath for Henrietta's return. They'd finally arrived at the crux of the conversation. Rusa would ask for Henrietta's help uniting the volunteers, Henrietta would agree, Roche would admit his doubts were all for naught and the plan would continue smoothly.

The look of dread on Henrietta's face when she returned spoke differently. One glance at Roche silenced the crowd by the fire. In an attempt to stall the inevitable, Rusa chattered on.

"As Vissegerd's daughter, the Volunteers are sure to unite under your banner. I would. I _am_."

It took every ounce of patience not to slap Henrietta's raised hand. Rusa exchanged a knowing look with Roche. His eyes held an emotion she couldn't put her finger on. It was discomfiting in the way it strengthened the tie between them. Most of all, Rusa despised the reason behind it, which was currently seated opposite her, expressions shifting to one suitable enough to 'break the news'. Finally, Henrietta smiled.

"I'm not the person you're searching for."

Roche snorted. Simple, to the point, vague as fuck. He watched Rusa's stoicism contort into a visible grimace. The feeling wasn't lost on him for he'd experienced it before; that searing, visceral emptiness as a plan unravelled around your feet.

Henrietta embraced Rusa's hand with her own, the latter desperately trying to hide the urge to tear away. Again, she smiled and gestured to the papers scattered on the table.

"When father died, I travelled to Brugge," recounted Henrietta, and Rusa groaned inwardly at having to steady her temper. The woman had something to say. Rusa would wait patiently to hear it. By the gods, if this story ended up going nowhere… Henrietta continued, "I waited until the dead of night to sneak into the manor basement. They'd already got to the safe beneath the trap door." She revealed a small, copper ring peaking out from beneath a piece of faded parchment. "Thankfully, they thought this was a trinket."

Rusa shuffled through the papers. "And these?"

"Father's poetry."

Henrietta studied their reactions. One smiling and encouraging, lifting the paper to the candle to get a better look. The other cold and emotionless as he reclaimed his seat, ignoring the inquisitive woman to his left, fixing an uncompromising stare on the one ahead.

Roche sat back in his chair, extinguishing the flame between his fingers. "Locked away in a safe?"

Rusa grunted her annoyance and shifted towards another candle. Henrietta lowered her gaze with a tight smile. "In a world such as ours, poetry is sacred. I wouldn't expect you to understand its beauty, commander."

Rusa found herself rereading the same sentence until it became a blur. It was all well and good for those sequestered away in Oxenfurt during The Northern Wars to revel in the elegance of poetry. By the look on Roche's face, he couldn't care less about such lofty statements. But she cared.

"War is prose with no place for beauty," she said, flinching at the unexpected warmth in her chest. "That's our world and many haven't been fortunate enough to understand anything else."

Henrietta blushed and bowed her head. "Forgive my being so forward, Lady Elyot."

"Please—just Rusa. So, Vissegerd was a lover of the arts? You know, I never would have guessed."

"What's the point of all this?" demanded Roche, rifling through the papers.

"After the war," she hissed, each syllable stressed through her teeth, "the Volunteers scattered across the continent. Father told me he made a note as to the whereabouts of his most trusted general. This is whom you should be searching for if your plan is to succeed. I'm no battle master, Rusa, please understand."

A warmth settled across her cheeks on seeing Rusa nod—sincerely, without reproach. Roche's jaw set, his eyes narrowed.

"Absolutely not."

Henrietta gave a limp shrug before excusing herself. A couple seated themselves on the table next door. The peasant woman gave them a shy smile before focusing on her partner. Roche leaned in and placed a hand on the small of Rusa's back, angling her body into his.

"She is suggesting we find Alannah D'arcy."

Displeasure rumbled through his chest and Rusa stopped herself from closing the distance between them. She'd take this moment of peace for what it was. Memories of a woman clad in black standing off to the side as Vissegerd made his announcements, of a woman clad in black slicing the throat of Scoia'tael as Rusa struggled for breath under a heaving mass of half-dead bodies, a woman clad in black dispatching her commands followed by a blood-curdling wail as an arrow pierced her side. The fire, the blood, limbs and entrails blanketing the earth…

Rusa opened her eyes. Roche was staring down at her with a look of determination.

"D'arcy is considered a traitor by most. If our only hope rests on finding her, you're to forget this plan and return to Vergen immediately."

"And you?"

"I'll go back to the camp."

Rusa gave him a strange look. "Giving up so soon?"

Both turned at the sound of the door. Trailing behind Henrietta was a boy with cropped blonde hair and a generous mouth. The pale skin, however, pierced the illusion. Rusa smiled when Corley finally made eye contact. Roche shifted slightly in his seat.

"Insisting on a plan without _re-thinking_ your approach is a mistake," he stressed. "You need to understand this." He tugged a strand of hair from her face and eyed the approaching couple. "Here I thought you were a strategist."

Rusa shrugged his hand from her shoulder and searched through the papers. Anything. A name, a location, a symbol of some kind. If finding Alannah D'arcy increased Vergen's chance for survival, she'd find her.

"With or without you," she murmured aloud, and Roche didn't require an explanation. The poem escaped the pile as Rusa threw her hands in the air. He glanced at it, disinterested, until a blot of ink in the corner caught his attention. On closer inspection, he read from the beginning:

 _Unarmed in The Chapel—here, in the Sacred, I see my pew,_

 _Who takes his seat before me but a man I tried_

 _and failed to impress? My soul—lost lamb wandering the grove,_

 _But not for naught, he be my King,_

 _my soul, sacrificial lamb of_

 _unkept vows and feeble promises—we be but Beggars_

 _of his unholy Grace._

"May I?" Corley approached with a caution that amused the older man greatly. Roche stood as the boy drew close with a trembling hand. His voice was a squeak when he said, "Henrietta explained everything. If I may read it for a moment, please."

Roche merely looked at him, faintly surprised. The boy had clearly come to his own conclusions as to the purpose of the poem. Henrietta cleared her throat in an attempt to catch Corley's eye. He received a curt nod of encouragement before returning his gaze to the commander. Any shred of courage evaporated on meeting an implacable stare. Rusa shot Henrietta a pleading look. The woman seemed to believe Corley capable of overcoming Vernon Roche—which he could. One day. But not now. And Rusa was losing her patience. She strode towards Roche and made to snatch the paper, inhaling slowly when he held it out of her reach. Her jaw tightened as she glanced at the others. A lady wouldn't jump on her tip-toes like a dog begging for a treat. Nor would she scramble over the chest and shoulders of a man like a feral cat.

Time seemed to suspend as the two of them jostled for control, Rusa's fingernails digging into his shoulder to gain some extra leverage. Roche grunted as she flung herself against him and practically leapt for the parchment. He gripped the ruff of her shirt and pushed her back, refusing to steady her as she stumbled over a loose floorboard. A stray piece of thread from her shirt had caught on a buckle on his uniform and when it failed to untangle itself, she tore at it with her teeth. The rumble in Roche's chest was maddening. He stared down at her, hand in the air, goading her on. Rusa tossed the thread at his face and drew back. She offered a hand. Corley's relief was audible when Roche calmly placed the paper into her palm.

"Here," she mumbled and planted the parchment into the boy's chest. Roche joined her at the table, amused by the way she stormed to the other side and hoarded all the food. She glared up at him from under her lashes before flicking a grape in his direction.

A squawk of delight sounded from the centre of the room. Henrietta's hand rested upon Corley's shoulder as the latter gave a theatrical 'Ah!" and paced over to Rusa's side. He scattered the plates and pressed the poem firmly on the table.

"A _poema secreto_."

Rusa blinked. "I see."

"A poem with a hidden message," Corley continued and was unmoved when Roche left the room without a word. Rusa's concern fell on deaf ears. She nodded for Corley to continue.

"See here," he said, smiling, "the last word of each line. They form a message."

Rusa scanned the parchment as her mouth formed the sounds wordlessly. She looked up with a breathy laugh. "I don't understand. How do you know?"

Corley's smile widened. "This was a means of communication during the Northern Wars. Bards were enlisted to conceal instructions within their writings, 'selling' them as works of 'art' when they visited certain keeps. Troubadours were especially popular given the despair in the North. No one suspects anything sinister in a love ballad."

Rusa was taken aback. She threw Henrietta a strange look before her thoughts fell to Dandelion. Nostalgia threatened to consume her as she took in her surroundings.

"Okay, but why the last words of the sentences? How do we know the message isn't in the third? Or the—"

"If I may be so bold," interrupted Corley and he glanced at Henrietta seemingly for consent. "This technique is the…simplest." His cheeks reddened under Henrietta's gaze.

"Corley is trying to say that my father was what we might call a 'minor' poet. Certainly not a trained bard from birth." Corley made to apologise but Henrietta raised a hand, smiling. "And he'd be right. My father was a man of war first, lover of the arts second—" her smile faltered—"One demanded more attention than the other."

Rusa was quick to defuse the situation, adding, sincerely, "Vissegerd was a good man." She squeezed Henrietta's hand before turning to Corley, "Now, Bard. Show us your skills!"

"As I said, it's simple," he replied, blushing deeper. Henrietta went behind the bar and collected a quill and paper. Corley set to work and copied the words in a hasty scrawl. "The one thing we can't be certain of is whether the words stay in their original order. What do you understand of 'pew tried grove'?"

The women frowned in unison and gestured for him to continue. "Grove King?"

"Or King of Grace? We normally associate one with the other," offered Henrietta.

Corley considered this before shaking his head. "Both are capitalised but it doesn't fit."

"King of Beggars, then?" Rusa chimed, receiving a nod.

"More likely. We are indeed beggars when compared to a king."

"Seems father's done us a favour, then," replied Henrietta, referring to the pattern. "We agree the words stay in the same order?"

"I believe so," said Corley as he tried a different sequence and crossed it out. "This doesn't make things any easier."

Rusa could feel her frustration begin to surface and Roche wasn't there to suffer the consequences. She pressed her lips into a thin line and said, "Let's start from the beginning. Pew tried grove King of Beggars Grace."

" _Unholy_ Grace," interrupted Corley. "Whoever this King is, he's not a holy man."

Henrietta nodded slowly. "Meaning he's not a real King given that all Kings are ordained by the gods."

"What do we think this could be?" Corley gestured to a small scribble resembling a 'V' in the corner. He seemed unconvinced when Henrietta suggested it to be her father's signature.

An ache was developing at the base of Rusa's skull and worming its way to her temples. She excused herself when Henrietta went to retrieve some other documents and revelled in the crisp evening air as she stepped out back. She took a seat by the side of a peasant at the communal fire. The man offered her a chunk of bread. Mouldy, stale, but the thought was there. She nibbled a corner to be polite.

"That's some company you travel in, girl."

Rusa averted her eyes and dusted some crumbs from her shirt. The hooded face opposite her was like a mirage through the flames.

"I said that's some company you travel in, girl."

"I heard you the first time," she snapped. The peasant man leaned into her and announced he needed a piss. Her cheeks flushed at the thought of being left alone. As he made his way into the thicket for some privacy, Rusa feigned discomfort and quickly made her way to the outhouse. The gaze of the hooded man burned into her back. His gravelly voice, gnarled hands, a glimmering chain swaying in the opening of the hood as he hunched forward. She hooked the latch on the door wondering how she was to bear the putrid stink rising from the latrine. Closer than the inn, less obvious, still a terrible choice.

Several agonising moments later, Rusa cracked open the door and saw, to her frustration, the hooded figure talking animatedly to Roche by the fire. She fell from the outhouse gasping for breath.

"Look 'ere, she's back. Thought you'd drowned."

The man had removed his hood to reveal a bald head and thin face with hawkish eyes that didn't miss a beat. A worn, patched overcoat covered what was undoubtedly a wiry frame. He readjusted his monocle and observed Rusa before turning to Roche with a grim smile, "The girl preferred the company of a pile of shit compared to me own. Well, you can't win 'em all, can you, Vernon?"

Roche shrugged and gestured between them. "Rusa Elyot of Cintra, Bernard Ducat. Head of Temerian Intelligence."

Ducat reached around and offered his hand. "Call me Thaler, love."

Rusa swallowed a humph and turned her cheek. The ache in her temples had progressed to her jaw. Thaler's voice was grating as he mumbled an apology.

"Didn't mean to scare you, love."

"It's fine."

"No need to fear me," he said with a sincerity that contradicted the hard lines of his face. Roche observed the exchange with an unreadable expression. Rusa softened and drew herself into a cross-legged position. She steepled her fingers and frowned at the men.

"How long have you been following us?"

"A gentleman never tells," replied Thaler.

Roche kept his gaze on Rusa as he said, "You did well to stay out of my sight."

Thaler chuckled and tapped his nose. "Wouldn't be doin' my job if I didn't." He pointed at Rusa with a stick. "Your 'air's wonderful, my dear, who's your stylist?"

"Why? Planning on changing yours?"

Thaler's eyes darkened before a broad grin stretched across his pitted skin. "Oh! Oh. _This_ one—guts!"

A small smile tugged at Roche's lips before his face hardened. "What of your dealings in Cidaris?" Thaler turned on Rusa and smiled when her eyes flared in indignation. She gaped up at the sky and drew in a long, ragged breath. The gall of the man to insinuate _she_ could not be trusted! Seated with Vernon Roche and the Head of Temerian Intelligence and the suspicion rested on _her_?

"Anything said to me can be said in front of her," Roche cut in, and Thaler raised his hands in mock surrender. Rusa angled her body away from them. She _could_ be trusted. That was more than either of them could say in their respective lifetimes. The question of Roche's integrity niggled at her mind. Was Iorveth right in saying the man didn't possess an ounce of altruism? The blue of his uniform fazed in and out of her periphery as the men fell into discussion about the reliability of a King Ethain. Roche became particularly incensed when he learned of the king's refusal to aid Temeria.

"Damn the whoreson! After Foltest shed his own blood to help him gain the crown?"

Altruism was asking a lot in a world such as theirs. Sitting around a fire pit of some Mariborian forest inn, Roche remained by her side. That he was doing it for Temeria could hardly be called an ulterior motive. Both knew it—indeed, Rusa had helped cultivate it. Could one be loyal without being altruistic?

"Language, Vernon, we got a lady present," cried Thaler and Rusa ignored his efforts to catch her eye. "Don't think I don't concur, of course. The man's a fuckin' dog."

Roche settled his gaze on the fire. "A hanging in Vizima square should do nicely. The people have been promised several of late and received nothing."

Thaler laughed and gave him a brotherly slap on the back. "Always with the hangin'. His favourite, you understand?" Rusa's mouth turned grim. Thaler's lips twisted, the rim of his monocle lost in the folds of his skin. "Course you do. You're one of the promised, after all."

Roche demanded her attention, which, several painstaking moments later, she gave. "Before we left Vizima, I asked Thaler to gauge the reaction of the Cidarians in the hope that they'd consider sending aid in the fight against Henselt."

"Ethain acknowledged Foltest's help in the past but with his death, and I quote, 'the tie to Temeria is severed'. He's no interest in the, and I quote again, 'petty squabbles of a kingdom without a king'," added Thaler, and the two of them fell into a brooding silence.

Rusa fiddled with her skirt and mumbled, "All the more reason to gather the Cintrans, then."

"Heard about that," Thaler mused. He cocked his head to the side. "How goes it?"

Rusa gestured around her. The peasant man had returned and was digging around an empty barrel with a vine holding up what was left of his pants. "See the horde we command!" Thaler broke into a wide grin and waited. Rusa drew in a deep breath. "Vergen's fate rests on decoding the poetry of a dead man."

The spy brightened considerably. "Got your hands on a _poema secreto_ , 'ave you?"

"Yes," replied Rusa, ignoring her discomfort on speaking so haphazardly. She narrowed her eyes. "Found amongst Vissegerd's things. Kept in a safe so the message is clearly important. Ever heard of a pew tried grove?"

"Maybe I have, maybe I haven't."

Rusa's lips compressed. Her jaw tightened. "Great. Thank you."

"What's this meant to achieve, anyhow?" he asked, eyes bulging.

"With Vissegerd dead, we need to find his second-in-command," she explained, taking stock of a decreasing amount of patience and willing herself some more. "We've nothing else to go on. I admit I have my doubts—the message could mean anything depending on how you choose to interpret it."

Thaler chuckled to himself as he cleaned his monocle. "She learnt this wretchedness from you, Vernon, I guarantee it."

"Maybe she did, maybe she didn't."

The man expelled a sharp snort. "Gangin' up on old Thaler now."

Roche inclined his head and said, "Perhaps you should do your job."

Thaler raised his hands and exchanged a look between the pair. "Alright, alright. How the ploughin' hell you two agree on anything's beyond me. Let's see this poem, then."

The last of the sun's rays gave the forest an eerie atmosphere as the three of them were joined by Henrietta and Corley. The latter, being in his element, seated himself next to Thaler without concern. The former stood off to the side despite Rusa imploring her to sit. If Henrietta had her suspicions about Roche, these doubled in the presence of Thaler. He was perched on the edge of the bench thoroughly engrossed, nodding occasionally as Corley offered his opinion. Eventually, Thaler gave a theatrical yawn and pet the boy on the head.

"Smart lad—" a teasing glance at Rusa—" _you_ didn't mention the best part! King of Beggars, Vernon, you seen this?"

Roche watched as Rusa offered half of her shawl to Henrietta who stood there shivering like an idiot. Rusa's attempt to hide her embarrassment when the other refused made his blood boil. She was petty and it angered him to see Rusa simply take it on the chin. He was about to make his opinion known when Henrietta apologised and took up the offer. This only angered him more.

Thaler cleared his throat. "What you make of that, Vernon?"

"Just get to the point."

"Bugger me sideways, can't a man partake in a little conversation once in a while? Mental stimulation—not as common as you'd think in my line of work, I'll have you know." Thaler retrieved his stick and swung it back and forth. "You got yourself a pretty little companion while _I_ rub shoulders with kingpin-shit-for-brains who think they know how it all works!"

"We need your help," pleaded Rusa, and she silenced Roche with a glare. " _Please_."

Corley distracted everyone by asking about the 'V' symbol. Thaler looked annoyed, as if the thing explained itself. "Always knew your father to be a smart man," he commented to Henrietta. "This is the symbol for 'vice'."

"Meaning second-in-command," muttered Roche.

Thaler clapped his hands together. "Well _done_ , Vernon. Good to have you back."

"So the message contains the whereabouts of Alannah D'arcy?" Rusa could hardly conceal her excitement. Thaler tugged his ear lobe with a pained smile.

"Been meaning to ask about that." He looked at Roche as if the commander should have known better. "D'arcy's a traitor to her own kingdom and you plan to seek her out? Seek out an alliance?"

Surprisingly, Henrietta jumped to her defence. "Her goal was to undermine Nilfgaard. She bled for Cintra and the North."

"Ah-huh. By whorin' herself out to Redania?"

"Radovid offered Cintra independence from Nilfgaard," she insisted. "An offer hard to refuse."

A nerve ticked at the base of Roche's jaw. "Well, it was all for nothing. Henselt doesn't like to be left out of the fun. Squealed on her, had her exiled to Redania."

"Right, well then," Thaler mumbled. "So goes the poem. Since I understand myself to be the only one with any common sense, you'll do me the courtesy of taking my advice. I politely advise you rethink your strategy."

"She's all we've got," Rusa stressed. "We've no other way to unite the Volunteers."

Thaler gestured to the woman seated to her left and Rusa blushed, eyes downcast. Henrietta spared her the embarrassment.

"I'm an herbalist, sir. Hardly fit to command an army. Cintrans understand Alannah's reasons. There are those who remain loyal to her—of this I'm certain."

The corner of Thaler's mouth rose ever so slightly. "An herbalist."

"And Corley must get to Vergen immediately," she continued, refusing to indulge him. "By tomorrow Jurkast will know he's missing."

Rusa's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You're leaving?"

Corley blushed and his eyes burned into the ground as he confessed, meekly, "I can't go back." He looked at Rusa then, surprisingly, at Roche. "Please. I want to help."

Rusa expressed her concern but agreed that they'd be safe within Vergen's walls. Roche commented on the irony and disappeared into the inn momentarily before reappearing with a chunk of bread. He dropped next to Rusa and tore her a corner piece. When she declined, he offered her a grape.

"Well, I'm tellin' _you_ to let it die."

Thaler's voice rose above Henrietta's causing the latter to huff and fall beside Corley.

"Tell 'em, Vernon," he went on, "tell 'em how foolish it'd be to seek her out. The woman's a menace and a fugitive in Novigrad to boot!"

This sparked Rusa's interest. "Novigrad?"

" _Pew tried grove_ ," spat Thaler, eyeing Roche. "Putrid Grove. Cesspit of Novigrad scum. Sound familiar?"

Rusa despaired at Roche's silence and pressed on, "Alannah's somewhere in this Grove? Why didn't you mention this earlier?"

Thaler responded with a harsh laugh that rang out among the trees. The fire cast a sinister shadow across his face as he explained, "Said yourself, love, the purpose of the poem was unclear. I'm a patient man. Like to gather all the information before I plough myself head first in the deep end. Your turn, Vernon."

Rusa's eyes burned into the back of his chaperon. "You understand all this?" She stifled a scream and paced the fire pit. "You are so—you're just so fucking—!" She stabbed a finger into Thaler's chest. "Give me the information and be done with it. I don't trust either of you!"

For a split second, the spy actually looked hurt. He handed the poem to Corley and conceded. "The King of Beggars is a title belonging to the man in charge of Putrid Grove and all its…activities. Unfortunately for you, a man don't normally last a day in that role. Crowned in the morning, stabbed come nightfall."

A sharp exhale was visible in the evening air. Rusa closed her eyes and bit down on her lip. "Get to the point."

"Meanin' I can't give you a name—not for certain, anyhow. I've my suspicions, however. There's only one man I can think of that could hold down the job."

"And he can take me to Alannah? _Stop_ talking in ridd—"

"And, you can't simply go saunterin' into the Grove swords-a-blazin'. You'll need a password. One that suits its current king."

"Enough with the games! _You're_ the Head of Temerian Intelligence," Rusa fumed. "Getting passwords is your job."

Thaler was momentarily stunned. He glanced at Roche, a slow grin lighting up his weathered face. "It's right in front of you, love."

Rusa flustered her way over to Corley and read the poem. Thaler sent an amused look in Roche's direction, the latter of whom gave an imperceptible shake of the head and made for the inn. He heard Corley's voice in the distance.

"Grace?"

Thaler gave the boy an affectionate pinch on the cheek. Corley smiled and covered the reddish mark with a swift glance at Henrietta.

"I think it best we retire for the night," she said and gestured for Corley to follow. "We've no rooms to spare, Thaler, but I can set up a bed roll by the fire in the commons."

Thaler was busy studying Rusa's changing expressions. "Much appreciated, love!" His eyes narrowed and he bent down to her level. "What's some words we associate with Grace?"

Roche appeared at the doorway and decided not to interrupt. Rusa's body slumped over itself and she set a vacant stare on the man beside her.

"I have a headache."

Thaler chuckled. "Such is the way of covert operations, my dear! Come now, you can do this."

"I'm not a child," she spat and sent a poisonous look at Roche. He leant against the doorway, arms folded, never breaking eye contact.

"You are," Thaler reiterated. "Consider yourself lucky. Now, come on. Can barely feel my arse no more, it's freezin'."

Rusa threw her hands up. "I don't _know_. Gods, holiness, divine, sacred."

"Very good. Keep goin'."

"Blessings—"

"Interesting." Thaler brought a finger to his chin. "Who's in need of blessings most of all?"

Rusa's eyes darted about her surroundings. "Common folk—people not blessed from birth."

"Give me more." He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and blocked her view of the doorway. "Whose souls need savin' most of all?"

Rusa swallowed a breath and whispered, "Sinners."

"Marvellous. And the opposite of sinners?"

"Saints."

Thaler squawked a laugh and squeezed her shoulder. "Wonderful. When you get to Novigrad, visit the Great Temple of the Eternal Fire, inquire as to the founder of the Seraphic Order. Perhaps this will lead you to your King."

Rusa blanched. "The Eternal Fire? As in The Order of the Flaming Rose? Those zealots? _Please_ —you clearly know who I'm to seek out. Please. I don't understand why I can't just go to the Grove and ask for the King of Beggars."

"A sure-fire way to lose what little respect you came in with, that is. Solvin' the riddle puts you ahead of the rabble. And, I assure you the Temple's librarian will bring you no harm," he smiled, and scrunched the poem into a ball.

"What are you—WAIT!"

The parchment shrivelled in the flames and turned to cinders. Rusa's eyes glazed over, empty, unable to comprehend.

"Incriminatin' evidence, love," came Thaler's voice behind her. "You understand."

Roche's footsteps sounded on the grass and she barely lifted her gaze.

"Such are the rules of the game, Vernon. The girl must understand."

Rusa stormed into the inn, thoroughly disappointed that her fist merely cracked the monocle rather than shattering it completely.

* * *

The warmth of the commons was all the more exaggerated by the downpour outside. Thaler sank further into the heavy collar of his overcoat, heat from the fire fogging up his monocle. It sat in his lap, miserable and broken. The girl had a reasonable swing. He traced the crack with a calloused fingertip and smiled. Magic would fix it right up. The door belonging to Henrietta seemed to rattle in response. Thaler laughed. _Herbalist, my arse_. The strong scent of mulled wine appeared under his nose.

"A bloody mess," he said as Roche fell beside him with a languid stretch. "A whole lotta fuckin' mess you got her in."

The commander didn't rise to the bait. "You look younger without that glass on your face."

"That _glass_ is premium eyewear sent all the way from Toussaint. Worn by distinguished gentleman throughout the Continent." Thaler jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Fit for a fuckin' peasant now thanks to her. What she doin', mind? Havin' a little snooze? All tuckered out, poor thing. Gave you a hard time, did she?" He sniggered. "S'why you're out here with the likes of me."

Roche pinched the bridge of his nose. "This King of Beggars. If it's who I think it is, you're sending her—"

"I? _Me_?" Thaler pressed a hand to his chest. "I ain't sendin' her anywhere, Vernon, _you're_ the one who's led her to believe this'll all work."

"The plan has merit. I told her this because it's true," he shot back, careful to keep his voice level. "I expressed my concerns over Alannah D'arcy. The woman's a good fighter but she's unreliable—more likely to slit your throat than speak to you."

Thaler's eyes danced merrily. " _Unreliable_. Understatement of the fuckin' century. When did you get so diplomatic? Doesn't suit you."

Roche ignored him. He could almost sense Rusa coming to in the back room. She accused him of keeping things from her. Which he was. She declared him deceitful and manipulative, which he couldn't deny. She demanded he tell her what she needed to know, which he wouldn't. He'd gripped her wrist when she took up a butter knife, digging his thumb into a pressure point until she cried out. A knee connected with his groin and he doubled over, stumbling against the bed. Rusa wasted no time in gaining the advantage and lunged towards him. The full force of her body on his achieved little and she found herself swiftly pinned to the mattress. Rough fingers clasped her ankle and dragged her to the floor. Roche almost laughed when she brought half the bedding with her. It was endlessly enjoyable watching her struggle beneath him. A pillow thumped against the side of his face and he only just managed to dodge a second blow. When he secured her wrists to the floor, the energy shifted. Rusa fell limp—a strange tactic, he noted—face contorting as her eyes closed. Roche was momentarily hypnotised by the rise and fall of her chest. And then, a subtle curve of her mouth.

"Off fantasisin', are we?" Thaler slurped the dregs of his goblet. "Surprised you got the energy." Receiving silence, he pressed on. "You ain't told her yet, have you? Novigrad ain't no place for the Commander of the Blue Stripes. You willin' to exchange the Blue for somethin' more inconspicuous?"

Inwardly, Roche frowned. The idea was preposterous. "It'd be foolish to accompany her."

"Right," drawled Thaler. "You know better. The girl would be dead before sunrise. You got enemies, friend." His goblet clanged against the wall in a fit of laughter. "You know what they say, don't you? If each of your enemies was to give you an oren, you could buy Temeria together with its nearby lands. And if each of your friends were to bury you—"

"He'd have to do it himself?"

Henrietta sauntered through the commons, wide-eyed and alert. She'd not slept at all. Thaler retrieved his cup and raised it to the ceiling.

"That's poetry for you, love," he chuckled and offered his seat. Henrietta positioned herself by the hearth and stared at them. Thaler lowered his gaze. "Speakin' of which, my deepest apologies in regards to your late Father's brilliance."

"Lying in waste at the bottom of the fire pit, I'm told," she replied. Roche concealed his surprise when she continued, "The memories live here—" Henrietta tapped her temple—"not on some piece of parchment."

Roche's lips pulled together in a sneer. "Just a piece of parchment, now, is it?"

Henrietta brushed it off and pressed on. "I overheard your conversation."

"Seems to be a little habit of yours."

"Rusa's undertaking this quest with or without your consent," she remarked, and Roche bristled at the woman's arrogance. "Do you realise this?"

Thaler cocked his head to the side and smiled. "Course he does, love." Then, with a theatrical wave of the hand, "High-time the two of you separated, I think. She's a big girl, can take care of herself. Besides, I got a feelin'. Stubborn as a mule and much better lookin'. S'why I left her to it—got potential, I can see it."

Roche arched one brow. "For?"

Thaler waved him aside and grinned. "She'll be 'right."

Roche allowed himself to be drawn in by the flames. Aware of the eyes watching his movements, waiting impatiently for his response, he took his time, confirmed a decision already decided earlier by the fire pit. Rusa knew it, too, had felt it the moment he mentioned Alannah D'arcy; confirmed it the moment Thaler mentioned Novigrad. The knowing smile she gave him before he left the room—simultaneously concerned and reassuring—told him everything he needed to know. She _was_ prepared to venture to Novigrad alone. For Vergen, for Temeria, for people who she'd never met, who'd put themselves before her a hundred times over. His fists clenched over the armrests. There was a word for her behaviour. Indeed, there were many. Foolish, reckless, stubborn… The word he was looking for eluded him. Whatever it was, it had no place in a world such as theirs.

"She'll be 'right, Vernon."

Roche glanced at Henrietta before placing a firm hand on Thaler's bony shoulder. The man buckled under the pressure and slumped into his seat.

"She _will_ be alright, Bernard. You're going with her."

* * *

A/N: Novigrad-bound! Ah, how I've longed to revisit those filthy warrens of beggars and thieves. Anyone else adore Thaler? The scoundrel. Would love to know what you're thinking =)


	14. Author Note

Hi guys,

Sincere apologies for not posting since October. I have ongoing issues with my back so I haven't been able to get to the computer and write as much as I'd like. I'm heading into the final year of my doctorate so when I do get to the computer, I'm catching up on my thesis.

Please know I don't intend to give up this story. On the contrary, I love every minute I get to spend in the Witcher universe and am very attached to _Beanna_.

So, Chapter 14 is now underway =) Thanks very much for your patience.

Libertiny x


	15. Chapter 14

A/N - Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays everyone! I hope this chapter was worth the wait.

Disclaimer - *types and deletes several terrible puns*

* * *

 **Kaedweni Camp**

Fenn lounged against a boulder tweaking his crossbow. The pounding in his head was becoming unbearable. If it belonged to the festivities in the camp canteen, he'd let it go. If it was the clanging of Blue Stripes steel down by the river, he'd excuse the racket. But it was neither and Fenn was on the verge of losing his patience.

Ves's pacing was without its usual rhythm having become erratic and frustrated with the occasional stomp of the heel. This was unlike her. The men had so far failed to find a solution. It had been over a fortnight since their commander made for Vizima, a move that elicited from Ves—the most level-headed of the unit—a particularly acidic response.

" _She made her bed, Vernon—let her lie in it."_

 _Roche acknowledged her concern with a curt nod, surprised at the uncertainty. Ves possessed a confidence that seldom trembled. When it did, he listened—but not now. The decision was made not a moment after the messenger from Vizima arrived with the news. Iorveth to be hanged in the town square along with that conniving little b—_

" _What are we supposed to do while you're gone?" Ves pressed. "The men are sick of waiting around. Henselt's soldiers have it out for Thirteen, calling him a cheat, something about anabolic steroids. Shorty's got half the brothel with child." She checked herself as Roche brushed past her, driving a dagger into the nearest post. He glanced over his shoulder but she held her tongue._

" _You've something to say."_

 _Ves considered her words carefully. "Your place is here. With the men. What happens if the mist clears and Henselt charges into battle? Meanwhile you're stuck in Vizima. Our mission is to find the kingslayer. We know he's headed for Loc Muinne. You're going…"_

 _The word eluded her. A small frown lodged itself between Roche's brow as he offered, "Backwards?"_

" _In more ways than one."_

" _Care to elaborate?"_

 _Roche gathered two knapsacks and rifled through his belongings. Ves dislodged the dagger, taking time to arrange her thoughts. Part of her longed to berate the commander for such reckless behaviour. And this she knew for a fact: Iorveth had nothing to do with it. Ves's mind flashed to the moment in Flotsam's ruins; when she was overwhelmed by Scoia'tael soldiers, when she foolishly turned her back on one to fight another, when she felt the rush of the arrow that saved her life. When the girl received a bolt to the chest as thanks._

 _When Rusa returned only to betray them come sundown._

" _The mist will hold until I get back. According to Dethmold," Roche squeezed the name between his teeth, "the curse is unparalleled in terms of endurance and historicity—whatever the fuck that means." He tossed aside a blunt knife and mumbled, "Typical mage, using words longer than his syphilitic prick."_

" _Dethmold doesn't have a witcher on his side. Geralt may be close to finding a solution."_

 _Roche swore under his breath. "I don't doubt it."_

 _Ves's confidence returned with a vengeance. Enough of the small-talk. "Why are you really leaving? To what end? To stand there and watch her dangle from the scaffold?"_

 _Roche's knuckles were white as he deposited a spare shirt into the sack. Hearing her name slip loosely from the lips of his second-in-command made his blood boil. Over the last week, when he thought of her, she took many names. Manipulative bitch, for one. 'Cintran whore' was also catchy but he couldn't claim ownership there. The messenger who referred to her as such received an extra oren._

" _You need to let it go," Ves continued, matter-of-fact._

 _Roche buckled his knapsack and exited the tent. Ves flopped onto a mattress and raked her nails over her scalp. Most likely he'd leave without a word to the men, which meant she'd be the one to explain the inexplicable. She watched an insect scurry up the canvas before fluttering onto her shirt sleeve. It wasn't inexplicable. In the commander's mind, Rusa didn't betray him—she outsmarted him. And that was something Vernon Roche could never let go._

Fenn opened the slit in the canvas. The blonde had stopped pacing for now but only due to the fact that her belt had loosened in the process. The telling shaft of light bathed the toe of her boot and she met Fenn's stare with an uncompromising one of her own.

"We've received no word since the attack on Vizima," she said and Fenn hauled himself into the tent. He reeked of sweat and oil and Ves mumbled something about doing everyone a favour by visiting the river sometime. Fenn smiled.

"Want to join me, then?"

She sent him a withered look. "This is serious. Rumour around camp is the witcher's almost ready to lift the curse. The Virgin of Aedirn has supposedly recovered."

All Ves knew about Saskia the Dragonslayer was from the mouth of her commander, which, to say the very least, was far from pleasant. She'd never confess to the twisted satisfaction she felt since learning it was a 'mere' woman opposing the Last of the Unicorns.

"Heard about it, yeah," agreed Fenn. "Though Proximo mentioned something else. Nothing but another rumour in my view."

Suspicion shadowed Ves's face. Fenn fingered the hem of his shirt. He shouldn't have brought it up. Those blue orbs could burn a hole through the hardest exterior. Fenn settled his gaze just above her shoulder.

"Seems Geralt's waiting for something," he muttered. Ves's eyes narrowed in an attempt to extract further information. A bead of sweat trickled down Fenn's brow. He brushed it haphazardly and spoke into his sleeve, "Or someone."

Fenn raised his hands in mock surrender as Ves made for the exit. "That's all I know—Ves!"

The blonde charged past the men and hiked toward the main camp. A Kaedweni hitched his crossbow—not so much aimed at an angry soldier than at a frustrated woman. Ves lowered the weapon with an assertive hand.

"What's with you, Zyvik? Booze made you batty?"

Zyvik blushed beneath his beaver cap and angled away from his compatriot standing off to the side. His voice was muffled under a heavy moustache. "Can't rightly let you in lookin' like you want to murder Henselt himself."

Ves took a turn, hands splayed. "With what exactly? A rock?"

The second soldier—whose name she didn't know and didn't care to know—stepped in between them. He surveyed Ves from head to toe before sneering, "Don't trust you lot. Parading about with your commander who thinks 'imself a peacock amongst pigeons. Now that he's gone why don't the lot of you just fuck off?"

"Going to let me in?" Ves asked, attention on Zyvik. The other soldier muttered a stream of profanities and returned to his post, with a lecherous glance at Ves's unbuttoned blouse for good measure.

The blush on Zyvik's mottled cheeks deepened when he replied, "Just—just assure me you ain't got a dagger in your boot and you ain't plannin' nothin' sinister."

Ves smiled. It was enough for Zyvik to step aside. She'd always opposed using feminine wiles to achieve a goal. It was, in fact, Roche who suggested, "Why not? Those stupid enough to fall for it don't deserve to wield a sword." Ves snorted as she considered the irony. She sauntered into the camp canteen in search of Proximo Woodblade, mind racing from one thought to the other in jagged succession. To brand Rusa Elyot a traitor presented several inconsistencies that Ves, despite her training in military professionalism, struggled to repress. She was, however, not one to dwell on sentimental nonsense and on seeing Proximo, planted herself on the bench opposite.

"My favourite competitor," he said, eyes alight whilst reminiscing over Ves's recent victory in the camp arena. The blonde garnered quite the audience and Proximo wasn't one to deny the men a show. And the gambling! The result of which sat heavy in his fur-lined pocket. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He acquired a tankard off a passing tray. Ves took a sip and willed herself not to regurgitate the swill that passed for ale. She regarded him over the rim of her mug and said, "I've heard rumours."

"Have you now?"

"I want the truth."

"Oh, aye," he replied, a small smile cracking his composure. Ves squirmed inwardly as the eyes of several soldiers accosted her from all sides. Proximo leaned over his forearms, eyes bright. "Truth is subjective, little lady."

Ves appreciated the fact she was alienating him so changed tack. "My comrade, Fenn—"

"An impressive fist-fighter. Not so great at dice poker, mind you."

"The witcher draws nearer to reversing the curse. Kaedwen could soon be on the battlefield," she said. The smile returned and dimpled the arena master's cheek. "But he's waiting for someone."

Proximo raised a finely arched brow. "Some _one_?

"Tell me what you told Fenn—and more," she answered and chuckled when Proximo's jowls shook in offense. "You don't want to? Shame. On leaving here I was going straight to the arena sign-up sheet."

The weight of gold in his pocket reminded Proximo of his priorities.

"Quite right," he conceded and brandished a rusted cameo ring. "By the way—forgot to give you this for last time. As payment."

Ves was sceptical as she studied the token. Worth shit, unsurprisingly. She'd give it to one of Shorty's bastards when they returned to Temeria. Roche erupted into her thoughts and she regarded the man in front of her with cool disdain.

"My thanks. Now—"

"I told the boy all I know," Proximo shot back, referring to Fenn. "The witcher's ready to lift the curse. Why he hasn't done it yet is beyond me. I simply conjectured what any rational man would and believe him to be waiting for something. Or, as you say, someone."

Ves was puzzled and latched onto the nearest target. "Iorveth?"

"I don't know, do I?" he gestured wildly then lowered his voice. Ves sensed his growing agitation. This conversation wouldn't last much longer "You're a member of the Blue Stripes—it's _your_ job to hunt squirrels. The fuck am I supposed to know what that terrorist is planning?"

Ves examined him closely. Rivulets of sweat trickled down the nape of his neck and onto his collarbone. She smiled. "Perhaps you want to tell me what you're hiding."

It was as if the gold disintegrated on the spot. Proximo blanched when Ves shrugged and left the canteen. Several men smirked into their ale as they watched him weigh up the pros and cons. The blonde had developed quite a reputation around camp though it was not of her doing. Simply, to pursue her risked a punch to the jaw or an elbow to the gut.

"Keep a hand on yer balls, Proximo!" was the timely piece of advice as he trailed after her, fighting back the heat rising to his cheeks.

Proximo was shocked to see Ves nearing the King's quarters. At first, he kept his distance. The determination of her walk was enough to cause any man to reconsider. She placed a hand on the gate then stood back and balled her fists. One shoulder seemed to rise and fall before the other and Proximo knew she was steadying her breath. He leapt forward and placed a hand under her elbow. Ves flinched and drew back.

"I don't know what you're planning but I'd say it isn't worth risking your hide," he said, hands raised.

"Oh, very good," she retorted. "Looking out for your number one draw."

Proximo dipped his head and eyed her under heavy lids. Why he was protecting this woman was beyond him. He and Roche may have been made a "political" arrangement but Proximo personally owed the man nothing. His voice was low as he pulled Ves to one side. "Henselt's chomping at the bit right now and Dethmold's holding the reins. A member of the Blue Stripes—and a woman at that—storming into their quarters will amount to nothing but trouble for you." Ves merely blinked. Was this a sign of acknowledgement? Proximo tried his luck. "The sudden disappearance of your commander has only added to suspicions around camp."

"Suspicions?"

"Nothing too sinister—just general distrust," he replied and steadied his gaze, adding, sincerely, "You need to keep your head down. Battle in the arena, that's fine. Drink in the canteen—you'd do well to show your face from time to time. Just…"

After an awkward pause, Ves gave an imperceptible nod and made for the door. A strange noise erupted from the back of Proximo's throat.

"There are rumours of a girl amassing an army," he said hurriedly in attempt to stall her further.

Ves kept her back to him. "The Virgin of Aedirn—this isn't news."

Proximo returned with a look of exasperation. This information was worth pouches of gold. But he was a businessman and considered himself to be an ethical one at that. At least, by Kaedweni standards. The woman standing before him had provided him more orens than he knew how to spend. He'd take no pleasure in divulging the information but he was a man of _business_. And his prize-fighter was on the verge of abandoning ship.

Proximo shook his head slowly. "Another girl. A Cintran in allegiance with—" Ves held a breath—"Iorveth and the Scoia'tael. Perhaps this is whom the witcher awaits."

"Or he's waiting for both," offered Ves and, despite her composure, struggled to quell the rising bile in her throat. A silent thanks and she took off toward the main gate. Proximo gnawed his lip and trotted after her.

"One more thing," he added and Ves didn't hide her impatience. "You'll want to hear this. I kept this from your comrade, I admit to that."

Ves refused to blink until Proximo confessed. The latter guarded his privates with a weathered hand as he said, "The Cintran's been seen with your commander."

She kept her gaze steady and voice even. "Where?"

"Travelling through Temeria. Before my contact could refine the details, he was spotted by one of yours. Old sod with a monocle—let him live. Strange man."

"Why haven't you gone to Henselt with this information? If this girl's amassing an army to aid Vergen, you'll be rewarded handsomely," she replied, skin tingling with sickly warmth.

Proximo looked momentarily downcast. He seemed to reconsider his words before settling with, "I've told you everything you need to know."

Ves was unaccustomed to feeling useless and even less accustomed in dealing with it. For half an hour she took to pacing around the camp commons. She chose to avoid the rest of the Stripes for now. No good would come of projecting her own anxieties onto men already agitated and, worst of all, bored. She busied herself with the notice board; a rotfiend contract, two missing persons, another tournament in the arena with a tribute to Ves pasted in bold letters—"BLUE STRIPES BLONDIE"

Powerlessness was not in her nature but it gnawed at her with a peculiar vengeance. Perhaps as payment for all the times she'd reasserted herself in compromising situations. Not the role of a lady, according to the holy man in her village. Many times, young Ves found herself in his quarters, reprimanded and struck for such insolence as she was forced to account for her whereabouts during morning service. Fishing by the river, fencing in the old cemetery and, by the time she was fifteen, creating and distributing grapeshot bombs to neighbouring villages. Ves's mind momentarily lapsed. Of course, the holy man didn't stand a chance of surviving the onslaught. The celebrations for her sixteenth birthday began early morning. Funny how one becomes an adult over the course of a day.

The memory was enough to trigger an immediate decision. There was nothing to be done about Vernon. Wherever he was—whomever he was with—Ves trusted her commander implicitly. He'd send word when and if he saw fit. As for Rusa Elyot… Amassing an army? The image alone was enough to make a grown woman tumble to the ground in hysterics. If the circumstances weren't so dire, Ves would have indulged if only for a moment. Gods, it would be a welcome reprieve in this hellhole. She sobered on leaving the canteen and had to hand it to the girl. There was a fine line between idealistic and downright naïve and Rusa treated the groove as an acrobat would her tightrope.

Whilst Roche was off gallivanting through Temeria with or without Rusa Elyot, she'd see to it that the Scoia'tael remained fastened to her commander's leash. Not that she held a particular grudge against the bandits and that despite the fact her childhood charred to cinders by their hand. Iorveth's Scoia'tael pledged allegiance to Saskia but what of the others? As several outcomes vied for her attention, a singular thought held tight and refused to let go: Why bother? It wasn't as if Ves and the rest of the Stripes aligned themselves with Kaedwen. Roche was vague when he hinted at their need to stay neutral. And if it came to battle? "Who gives a fuck?" he'd argue, clenching his jaw as Ves pointed out the potential danger to Temeria if Henselt was to succeed. He'd be unresponsive for the rest of the night. Staring into the fire, seemingly calm and contemplative, he'd sit for hours at a time. Plotting something. _Hiding_ something. Ves would go to bed, ignoring the chasm between them that ceased to exist come morning.

Whatever the case, Scoia'tael surveillance remained a necessary duty. At least, that's what she told herself whilst seeking reassurance that it wasn't merely to stave off the monotony of camp life. Iorveth unites the Scoia'tael during the war effort only for the war to end and then? The Scoia'tael run unchecked; savage and violent in their rebirth as a force to be reckoned with throughout the North. Unless Vergen lost, which, a week ago seemed the likelier outcome. Ves, a seasoned veteran, was the first to acknowledge war as an entity in itself, with a mind of its own that humans, elves and dwarves could only momentarily control. But in the heat of battle, a single moment has the potential to reverse the tide completely.

Most of all, there was the kingslayer to consider. Fled to Loc Muinne, but why? At who's behest?

Ves passed the elven prisoner without concern. An onslaught of ideas caused her to retrace her steps. Word around camp was the elf belonged to the Scoia'tael unit massacred by Dethmold's men during their attempt to capture Letho. The Kaedweni guard was twitchy as she approached. Permission to speak to the prisoner had been denied to every man foolish enough to ask. But Ves was neither a man nor foolish and after ten minutes negotiating the guard turned his reddened cheek, content in the knowledge that he'd win big come the next arena tournament. Ves was to throw the match. She agreed, safe in the knowledge that she wouldn't be attending.

The conversation between interrogator and prisoner was one-sided, to say the least. Unsurprisingly, the elf was uncommunicative, as was Ves when she wiped the phlegm from her cheek. She changed tack. That is, she changed direction entirely. Diverted by two women on their way to entertain the canteen residents, the guard became disinterested in the interrogation. In the distraction, Ves adopted Elder Speech. The words felt hot, sticky, and traitorous on her tongue. Syllables long since dead and buried struggled to form amidst the pool of gathering saliva.

The elf was taken aback as he finally confessed, "D'e thaermen en Rhendunv hesst. Ev'de salle e'maes oep Demaewn slaeht. En tedd vaer Letho caeme e'n sterte dunver n'ea woert. Er'te Draeh aep dh'oine! Serrit e'n Auckes vatt'gherne esste, thene Aarthenoekh waert."

Ves eyed the guard then nodded. "I heard about these other kingslayers." She paused as the guard trudged past them to relieve himself. "So, along with Letho, this Serrit and Auckes massacred your unit. Then what? Que'n thene dearme haess't?"

"They didn't mention their _plans_ ," he spat.

Ves was unmoved. "They must have said something, mentioned their past."

"Me ceanne... Bea hen tedd Feainn e'ssert. Serrit n'ea urre Eassene haet. Er t'eap Auckes gar'the saegt enneth Roethainne caem hesst, te erne Mauthe dearmh."

"They're in league with the Redanians?!" Ves regained her composure and closed the distance between them. "Que d'yaebl ess'e Roethainne ver ther, ell?"

"A Redanian delegation is set to visit Henselt very soon," he replied, eyelids heavy. Ves quickened her pace.

"Ve quelle elleth thene haesst caemme?"

The elf drew in a staggered breath. "I don't know who they're working for. Someone with a deep knowledge of politics."

"What makes you say that?"

"They know too much. Too much for simple witchers," he whispered and regarded Ves as one would an obscene sculpture, disgusted but intrigued. "They excelled in Elder Speech. Much better than you…"

"I was an unwilling student," said Ves and turned to signal the guard. Finger poised in mid-air, she hesitated. "Who's your commander?"

Cáemm aép hell, dh'oine!"

"Already there," she mused and abandoned him to his captors.

Ves closed in on the eastern gate before a heavy hand gripped her shoulder. By the look of his novice robes the man was one of Dethmold's servants. She reared back at the pressure of gnarled fingernails lodged in her shoulder blade.

"What do you want?"

A gravelly voice drifted from beneath the hood. "We've just received word from one of our scouts. Your commander was successful."

"Successful?" asked Ves, perplexed.

"Vernon Roche uncovered a conspiracy against the king. By tonight he will have returned from Kaedwen. He's to be personally decorated by Henselt himself." A weathered hand migrated under her elbow. "And you're to be there to see it."

Ves secured what little space she could, squashed between man and wall. Vernon in Kaedwen? Impossible. According to Proximo, Roche resided in Temeria and unless the commander had managed to gallop across half the continent in less than a week, returning from Kaedwen was highly unlikely. In a moment of doubt, she questioned Proximo's motives, of which the man had none except to keep his prizefighter within reach. Roche had been hiding something. Proximo, too. But the arena master had no reason to lie to her. Compared to the hooded figure beside her, Proximo, despite being Kaedweni, seemed a trustworthy ally. A headache formed near the base of her skull. None of it added up.

"Why hasn't Roche contacted me on his return?"

"How am I supposed to know the internal workings of the Blue Stripes?" he drawled and Ves heard Dethmold's influence in the way the voice hitched its pitch to a nauseating squeal. A breeze wrapped around her ankles and whipped at her laces.

When Ves refused to communicate further, the man sent her a small bow and drew back.

"Have your men come to the canteen tonight for a feast," he insisted. "To celebrate. A roast pig and two barrels of wine await. You're to come to the Royal Tent—a first row seat for your commander's decoration!"

Ves returned an imperceptible nod and waited until he was out of sight. She made her way to the Blue Stripes tent, hurried but walking so as to avoid attention. _Feast, my arse._ Her thoughts were manic as she crossed the small stream separating them from the rest of the camp. Silas greeted her with a merry cheer and went about downing his mead. Ves barely acknowledged him as she stormed into the tent, stuffing an empty knapsack with whatever supplies she could gather. They needed to leave. Vernon may be returning but not from Kaedwen. She couldn't suppress the snake coiling around her spine, up through her chest and strangling her lungs. Her breath was ragged as she overheard Oven say something about dice poker at the canteen. Ves pushed her face through the canvas slit and motioned for Fenn to join her inside.

"We're to stay put for the moment," she called to the others, the image of the sun setting behind a surprised Oven etched forever in her mind.

Ves wasted no time explaining and ordered Fenn to pack as much weaponry as time allowed. In her haste, she failed to notice the silence of the brothel, the barring of the main camp gates as a blackened horde crossed the stream and set up formation, crossbows at the ready. At the front of the line, a bound and gagged arena master forced to watch the massacre as reward for conspiring against his country.

* * *

 **Deep in the forests – East of Vergen**

Unlike his counterpart, Yaevinn was not one to settle debts nor was he one to abandon grudges. On the contrary, he found them amusing—they made him feel alive. It was, therefore, a struggle not to chuckle at the obvious discomfort emanating from the she-elf perched on a log opposite him. He regarded her coolly whilst her commander addressed the rest of _his_ unit.

Toruviel had lost none of her beauty over the last several years. Her countenance was as Yaevinn remembered: smooth, elegant and deceiving in its calm exterior, which, he observed, was currently cracking under his gaze. She turned to Iorveth with exaggerated interest in an attempt to ignore Yaevinn's suggestive smirk. Meanwhile, Iorveth caused a stir among _his_ commando.

"That's quite enough," said Yaevinn, fashioning his dark tresses into a top-knot. Toruviel compressed her lips. The last few years had done nothing to dampen his flare for theatrics. With his tattooed skin and careless Scoia'tael attire, he resembled a renegade marauder more suited to the seas than the forests. He donned a faded, floral green doublet and black breeches tucked into leather boots. A ripped scarf wrapped round his neck served as a hood depending on his mood. The Scoia'tael red was styled as a frayed sash looped around the waist. A darker shade than Iorveth's, noted Toruviel, before she was distracted by the iron cast of some horned beast gleaming from the belt's centre. She refrained from rolling her eyes as Yaevinn gestured wildly from atop a stone podium. They arrived not two nights ago and had been, so far, unsuccessful in garnering Yaevinn's support. Toruviel reminded her commander that they'd managed to convince three other units, that Yaevinn was a lost cause. Iorveth would agree only to then fall into heated discussion with several dissenters within the commando he helped build. During these debates, Toruviel watched their commander who stood to the side, confident in the loyalty of his men, iron fist dangling at his side biding its time, currently unfurled as he crouched low on the soapbox. An open palm scanned the audience before pointing into the distance, eyes closed for dramatic effect.

Iorveth glanced at Toruviel, a small smile playing on his lips. Yaevinn's penchant for melodrama would be his undoing. The Scoia'tael were renowned for their stoicism and austerity. Yaevinn's charisma was outdone only by his malevolence, two traits he made no effort to conceal. Indeed, one complemented the other and watching him in action proved them inseparable. Lyrical language reminiscent of Aen Seidhe poetics combined with malicious anti-dh'oine propaganda. Toruviel tried to resist entertaining her doubts. These men remained loyal to Yaevinn when the commando split then, why would they change now? She surveyed the faces; drawn, exhausted, frustrated. There was hope yet.

"The scar of yours should serve as a reminder, Iorveth."

Yaevinn descended from the podium with an elegant leap. Leaving little distance between them, he brought a finger to Iorveth's lip and hovered above the dented flesh. The latter didn't flinch, not even when Toruviel sprang to his side. Yaevinn studied the pair with a strange smile before returning to his men.

"I, for one, am a lover of spontaneity," he drawled. Eyes on his unit, he gestured over his shoulder with a rude finger. "If there's one thing I can't allow it's _repetition_." The word was poison on his tongue. "Monotony, routine, _tedium_. You like that one, Ru?"

A slow prickle crept its way up Toruviel's spine. Yaevinn didn't wait for a response.

"We've heard all this before—disagreed and stood firm against this _before_! You would aid those who would see you dead? Skewered on a pike for the entertainment of barbaric townsfolk, burned _alive_ as an apéritif to a royal banquet?" A ripple of unease swam through the crowd. Yaevinn's eyes danced merrily at the sight and sound of such discomfort.

"Two elves return to us," he continued and the men listened, silent and still. Yaevinn looked as if he was chewing a particularly bitter herb. "Are we to call them Scoia'tael? They who _abandoned_ their brothers and sisters to suckle at the teat of some peasant dh'oine?!" He rounded on Iorveth. "A mere peasant girl who, I must objectively state, possesses what passes for great beauty in a race so gluttonous, so decadent, so _unrefined_ , not only does she capture the hearts of impotent men but Aen Seidhe, as well."

Yaevinn cocked his head to one side. "Note how I excluded you from such a damning condemnation, Iorveth. You may thank me later."

The crowd was stirring in the silence and Iorveth caught wind of their mumblings. Yaevinn spoke of his loathing for repetition and yet this kind of talk had been going on for two days. He languished over monotony yet fell victim to his own cyclical rhetoric. It worked in his favour then but times change. Iorveth set a steady stare on the she-elf who'd proved his most vocal opposition thus far. Pale skin tight and taut across high cheekbones that curved into hollows housing tired eyes—the signs of one no longer able to hide their fatigue. Those who previously disagreed were changing their stance, albeit slowly. Though this was positive in itself, Iorveth's frustrations deepened. Despite Toruviel's pleading, he wouldn't leave without Yaevinn whose skills in battle matched, if not surpassed, his own. The elf's stubbornness hardened on seeing each of his men soften. Someone of less intelligence or shrewdness wouldn't care to notice. But Yaevinn possessed both in droves. Another obstacle presented itself in the form of undying loyalty. The commando would reach a certain level of pliancy before plateauing. Iorveth knew this as fact. Even if he was able to sway the unit, they'd not move until Yaevinn yielded. Volatile and violent though he may be, they would serve their commander until the end. Iorveth didn't begrudge them for this; he expected nothing less from the Scoia'tael.

"I see you withering under his gaze," mused Yaevinn. "Know that if mine has caused a similar reaction in the past, it was not my intention."

Iorveth caught the small click of Toruviel's tongue. They'd seen it all before. If Yaevinn played his cards right, benevolence now meant victory later.

"You've remained by my side. Walked this forest with me, sought shelter under its guardians, beheld the tranquility of its waters, embraced its spirit—living and breathing beneath its rocks, amidst the greenery." Yaevinn turned contemplative, a small crease settling between dark brows. "Our forest. In desperation it cries for aid as intruders make themselves known. For what competition is a forest when ambushed by fire? These flaming torches, crude but effective, like beacons of blind faith for merciless dh'oine. For they attack blindly, void of emotion, mindless vessels of some noble's bidding, lapdogs to whoever wears the crown. They devastate our land, a jagged scar seared into the terrain as the Mother weeps for her offspring."

Yaevinn didn't blink, didn't seem to draw breath. As if in a trance, he stared beyond the crowd. Generous, scarlet lips colored by the sun lifted ever so slightly. "But some of her children learnt to fight back. The Scoia'tael, manipulated and used by warring powers for as long as one cares to remember, receive the life of the forest in exchange for defending it with their own." He settled a penetrating stare on Iorveth. Toruviel had been on the receiving end of such a look before; that paralyzing mixture of menace and whimsy. Yaevinn had the uncanny ability to invite you in with a mere glance only to slit your throat as you laid bare your soul. Toruviel glimpsed at her commander, his arms folded, stance rigid. At least Iorveth would hear you out before revealing the blade.

"The forest grants us freedom from the dh'oine who oppress us, whose dying wish is to see the Aen Seidhe draw its final breath," continued Yaevinn. "Recall, if you will, the unifying words preached to us after the Northern Wars: 'Sooner or later the humans will kill off all the Aen Seidhe, then they'll start murdering one another. Their kind knows no other way. A thousand years from now a dimwitted human barbarian will climb to the top of a pile of bones, sit down and proclaim _I win_ '."

Iorveth's scar twitched as a low mumble resounded from the unit. Yaevinn smiled, adding, "Wise words. And yet, he whose lips cradled such elegant prose seems to have forgotten its meaning." The smile widened, savage and feral. Toruviel refrained from slicing off the small crest that dimpled his unblemished cheek. Yaevinn clapped his hands together. "Iorveth joins those who despise us and expects us to do the same. We rejected this offer once. I say, we do so again! _Here_ in the woodland, we rule ourselves, govern as _we_ see fit. This promised land free of racial hatred and discrimination is a promise that cannot possibly be fulfilled if humans are involved. _Vergen_ is an ideal—one impossible to achieve. Would you aid a cause with no interest in whether you live or die? Would you ally yourselves with Vergen only to perish as beggars when here we live as kings?! Vergen will use the skills of the Scoia'tael to sway the tide of battle and then? I need not repeat our treatment at the hands of Nilfgaard. Perhaps we forget the travesty that is Dol Blathanna?"

The crowd was stunned into silence. A satisfied smirk graced Yaevinn's face; satiated like a wolf having feasted on its kill. Several moments passed and Iorveth made to move before them. He need only repeat what had been said over the last two days. Unlike Yaevinn, Iorveth understood the power of repetition, studied the ways in which it chipped away at stubborn facades, slowly but surely.

The opinionated she-elf stepped from the fray. Toruviel recognized her—Alessia, a skilled herbalist with an impressive aptitude for constructing traps and snares. She wrung her hands and seemed to have developed a tic just below one eye. Yaevinn compressed his lips but motioned her forward. It was the precise moment when Iorveth caught the commander's shoulders sag. The glint had extinguished from Yaevinn's stare when their eyes met.

"If Iorveth speaks the truth, Vergen will fulfill what Dol Blathanna promised: a free state in which elves can rebuild within the safety of our own walls, controlled by a government of representatives of all races rather than a vassal state to a foreign tyrant," said Alessia. Toruviel couldn't hide her surprise. Years younger than herself but blessed with an eloquence she'd long since abandoned. "Do I understand you correctly, Iorveth?"

The commander tilted his head in acknowledgment. Another elf made his presence known.

"I agree with Yaevinn," he said and gestured around him. "The dh'oine do not fulfill promises. Past abuse and manipulation is what led us to seek out the forests in the first place. If not for the resilience of the Scoia'tael, the Aen Seidhe would be no more."

"Iorveth's goal is a worthy one," chimed another and the elf lowered his gaze on seeing Yaevinn's lip curl in disdain. "It is my hope our commander considers the request for if I am to go into battle, I would only do so knowing he led the charge."

"That is my hope, also," said Alessia and a general chorus of agreement sounded throughout the clearing. Another she-elf looped an arm through Alessia's, one hand cradling the base of her stomach.

Toruviel studied Yaevinn under her lashes. The lip turned downward, a visible grimace marring his marble features. He glared straight at her, then, and she fought to look away.

"….Three commandos travel to Vergen … chance to further unite the Scoia'tael…"

Iorveth spoke softly with an authority unmatched by any other, Yaevinn included. Distracted by the latter's penetrating gaze, Toruviel nodded her hasty approval. Yaevinn shrugged and waved a languid hand.

"Let us retire for the night," he announced and Iorveth concealed his relief when Yaevinn didn't add his usual concluding remark. There was no need to discuss things further come morning.

A calm twilight sky blanketed the earth as the crowd dispersed, some to the trees, others to their beds. When they were alone, Yaevinn stood an inch away from Iorveth's face.

"Know that if this is all for naught, _friend_ , I'll not hesitate to reopen old wounds," he spat and caressed his nail along the scar tissue.

When Iorveth remained silent, Yaevinn laughed; a short, sharp bark. "My! You've always been a cold fish but _where's_ the _passion_?!" A guttural sound erupted from his throat. "Where's the—what do they say in Toussaint? _Joie de vivre_?!"

If there's one thing Yaevinn despised, it was being ignored. A vice grip settled on Iorveth's shoulder as he went to turn away. Warm lips pressed against his ear.

"Perhaps you've expended it all on the peasant girl." Yaevinn drew back, eyes wide and mocking. "Perhaps on someone else. Word has it you've a fondness for a little quadroon."

A blade secured itself at his throat. Yaevinn smiled.

"Been a while since you put your hands round my throat."

Toruviel pulled him back and looked over his shoulder at her commander. Iorveth seemed unfazed by Yaevinn's vitriol. She, on the other hand, could slash him where they stood. Iorveth signalled for her to let go and she refused. The realization that her personal frustrations with the elf kept the knife in place infuriated her further. Motionless and limp in her arms, Yaevinn manipulated her emotions as a puppet master would his marionettes.

"It's not love, is it, commander?" he asked softly.

Toruviel cut in, blade firm on his larynx. "There are many shades of love, Yaevinn. Loyalty, for one. We don't expect you to understand."

In a flurry of movement, Yaevinn twisted her over his shoulder. Toruviel stumbled to her feet as Iorveth stepped between them, one hand catching the fist before it hit its mark. A vicious stream of Elder Speech spewed from Yaevinn's lips as he cast off Iorveth's grip. He glared at Toruviel, his contempt for the she-elf palpable in the evening air.

"You know _nothing_ of loyalty, Toruviel aep Shihiel," he hissed and trudged past Iorveth without a second look. "We leave at dawn."

* * *

A/N - a chapter without Rusa! I imagine she's slumped over her horse somewhere near Velen as Thaler enthusiastically points out the sights. "'ere we 'ave another lynchin'..."


	16. Chapter 15

A/N: I can only say thank you. Here's _Novigrad, Part One_.

Disclaimer: I only own Rusa and other OCs.

* * *

 _Novigrad_

The merit of a woman depends on two things: flattery and respect. A woman of class must be able to distinguish between the two or else be forever known as a common strumpet. At least, this was according to _The Golden Sturgeon's_ finest barmaid, whose lightly-freckled skin complemented warm auburn hair tumbling across broad shoulders. Bea could not have been more than twenty years of age but while the freckles gave her a certain innocence, the small smile dimpling her cheek allowed Rusa to reach her own conclusions: the woman was a seasoned flirt.

Sitting in a dockside tavern overrun by foul-mouthed, fouler-smelling sailors, fortune hunters, and rogues of all varieties did little to validate Bea's claim that either she or Rusa resided in the bracket of 'classy'. Nevertheless, the barmaid assured her they'd nothing to worry about and would succeed in life rather than end up a local favourite at _Crippled Kate's_. Wringing the ale from the hem of her skirt, Rusa drew back the sack passing for a curtain. Dusk was falling along with a piece of fish netting haphazardly pinned to the ceiling above. Bea frowned and brushed her shoulder, careful not to show discomfort. Rusa concentrated on the dockhands currently loading a ship. Bea was a woman of low station who made the best of what she had. Rusa couldn't deny her that.

They arrived in Novigrad three hours ago. After depositing Rusa at _The Golden Sturgeon_ —"May I suggest the mead?"—Thaler rushed outside.

"Sweet Nettie," he cooed and Rusa gaped in disbelief as he abandoned her. She took a window seat and mouthed her disapproval through the dirty glass. Thaler squawked in the distance and waltzed into _Crippled Kate's_. Oh, she knew all about Sweet Nettie, was privileged enough to learn of Sweet Nettie's skills all the way from Mulbrydale to Hanged Man's Tree.

"Sweet on the outside, even sweeter on the inside, catch my meanin'"?

"No."

Thaler chuckled. "'Course you don't. Know what the lads say about her?"

Hanged Man's Tree was becoming rather appealing.

"'Ain't nothin' sweeter than gettin' Sweet Nettie all wettie!'" he sang and snorted out something close to laughter. Rusa couldn't decide what was worse: the image of Thaler in compromising positions or the fact that she was doubled over in her saddle laughing.

"Ever been to a brothel, my dear?"

Rusa stopped laughing. "Technically, yes."

"Technically?" Thaler drawled and swivelled in his saddle.

"Flotsam's inn doubles as a whorehouse," she recalled, remembering Triss's not-so-subtle insult to Sîle de Tansarville.

"Whorehouse!" Thaler's face scrunched in dismay. "Ain't no need to denigrate a legitimate business with language like that. Ever heard of the _Passiflora_? Finest brothel this side of the Pontar."

Perhaps too fine for Temeria's Head of Intelligence who preferred to take his business to _Crippled Kate's_ for three hours. In the meantime, Rusa listened to Bea's natterings about men with a half-hearted smile that, had the barmaid been shrewd enough, would have signalled the end to conversation long ago. As dusk gathered over the Pontar, Rusa watched as Thaler hobbled towards _The_ _Sturgeon_ , toothy grin plastered across his face. Bea gave up her seat with a disgruntled sigh.

"No need for the lecture, love," he said as Rusa prepared a stinging remark. Thaler tucked a dirty dishcloth into his shirt and studied a piece of pork loin. Finding it satisfactory, he devoured it without a word. Rusa couldn't resist commenting on his appetite and received a wounded look.

"Had to work extra hard tonight. Ridin' across the continent leaves one a tad sore." Thaler fluffed another napkin over his lap. "But to resist the siren call of the brothel? Not many men willin' to do that."

Rusa started when they locked eyes.

"What you been doin' while I been away, anyhow?" he asked and gave a gleeful snort. "Don't tell ol' Thaler you made your way to _Passiflora_."

"There are worse ways to make some coin."

Thaler rubbed his chin. "Now that you mention it."

Rusa leapt up and paced their small section of inn. "What's the plan, then?" His mouth slackened. "No, don't bother. Let me understand this." Bea offered her a tankard in passing which she declined. "To get to the Temple we need to go to Temple Isle, which—no thanks to you—I've found out is across St. Gregory's Bridge, which—again, no thanks to you—I now know is located in the Gildorf district—"

"Near the _Passiflora_."

"—the library is on the lower level of the Temple."

"We?"

Rusa balked. "I'm sorry?"

Thaler removed his dishcloth and sat back. "I've no intention of accompanyin' you."

He waited for the inevitable tongue-lashing but received none. The girl simply deflated and flopped into her chair. The sight left him strangely dejected.

"Come, lass, no bein' out of sorts in _The Sturgeon_ , it's bad for business."

"Because business is booming," she muttered, scraping remnants of the previous night from the table. A raucous laugh sounded from the bar and Bea flittered over with a coquettish smile.

"Need a room for the night?" she asked, eyes bright. A successful flirtation.

Rusa and Thaler bickered over their choice of lodgings with the former finally conceding to the merits of somewhere like _The Sturgeon_ in regards to blending in with the crowd.

"Last thing we need is people whisperin'," offered Thaler but Rusa maintained her indignation at being grouped with a band of malodorous drunks. "Besides, you won't be sleepin' much."

She cast him a shrewd look. "You don't have the energy, surely?"

He was momentarily stunned before collapsing into a deep belly laugh. After gathering the attention of several unsavoury patrons—Bea's methods of distraction were masterful—Thaler wiped away a tear and wriggled his eyebrows.

"We can explore all that another time," he insisted and Rusa quelled the nausea creeping into her stomach. He clapped his hands and drew back the sack. "No, you won't be sleepin' much, love. Behold that there moon. Perfect lightin' for a little reconnaissance, wouldn't you say?"

Rusa arched a brow. "What are you hiding?"

"Where'd you get your information from anyway?"

Thaler knew the answer, of course. She'd formed some kind of bond with Bea while he was away. She was harmless, yes, but the speed in which Rusa had entrusted confidential information to a stranger concerned him. Surely Vernon should have seen to such reckless behaviour. Then again—he studied the woman currently struggling with a stringy pork loin—recklessness often lead to action. Not necessarily a good thing but in the stagnant world of politics often seen as the only course. Often, but not always. And this is where Thaler played his ace.

His decision to introduce Rusa to the sordid underworld of espionage was confirmed during their stop at Crossroads Inn. Two men seated at a corner table spoke in hurried whispers and when Thaler caught wind of their conversation he studied Rusa's reaction. The whereabouts of a certain Redanian delegation heading East was important news and would serve to increase her political awareness. When she darted across the room at the call of a round of gwent, Thaler reconsidered his role and settled on unofficial (no doubt unwanted) mentor. The girl was smart, quick, efficient. But she was also headstrong and prone to vocal fits of frustration. It wasn't his intention to extinguish this fire completely. Merely, coax it in another direction for her own good. The fighting spirit was vital but subtlety and patience were an art form. No better place to practice than a city built on the seedy foundations of trickery and cunning.

Vernon's influence had its limits. A shrewd battle strategist, he otherwise had little time for cloak-and-dagger tactics. Consider the options, prepare for the onslaught. There were others willing to navigate the labyrinth for him. A military veteran intimately connected with a powerful network of spies. A commander on the frontline of battle with his eye on the fringe. A man with his finger on the pulse.

But Rusa possessed skills Vernon was unable to cultivate. Their interactions at the herbalist's inn revealed as much. They unsettled each other; fed off each other's frustrations; adopted each other's energy. There was a bond, of course, Thaler recognised this. A meaningful one strengthened by the peculiar circumstances in which they'd been thrown together.

He tracked the pair from Maribor back to Henrietta's inn. Several arguments and the odd tantrum later, Thaler decided that if the girl was to learn the ropes Roche wasn't a suitable teacher. He didn't dare raise the issue with the commander. She was proving to be quite the distraction; so much so that Vernon abandoned his unit to the whims of Henselt's men to seek her out in Vizima. A questionable decision and one Thaler _did_ broach during their final conversation by the hearth. He was reassured Ves was more than capable of holding down fort.

Rusa differed from Roche in one important aspect: she was liked. Trusted by individuals who despised one another. To forge some kind of relationship with Vernon Roche whilst maintaining a connection to his arch-nemesis was no easy feat. She worked both sides without the need for manipulation and deceit. A natural leader with the ability to maintain her integrity amidst the chaos. Someone who could hold her own among the nobles and the peasants, the holy men and the crooks. Thaler saw the potential: if she was so inclined, Rusa could command the very horde she made light of back at Henrietta's.

But it wouldn't be the one she expected. Gathering forces was one thing, securing a steady stream of intel was a different game entirely. Indeed, they sat on a goldmine here at _The Sturgeon_. If she'd only _listen_. Thaler was a seasoned player but he was one man. Bearing the weight of a beleaguered Temerian intelligence network on his scraggy shoulders took its toll. In the wake of the civil war and Foltest's death, the underground weakened as Redania and Kaedwen took advantage and wove their webs, severing Temeria's fragile strands in the process. The effects of this rippled through Thaler's travels. Information was no longer exchanged with the Temerian representative and, if it was, he paid a hefty price. He'd been cut from negotiations, ignored at proceedings and, more often than not, left to his own devices. Once considered the _real_ bulwark of Foltest's reign, Temeria's intelligence was now a laughing stock, outdated, under-utilised and, to Thaler's unending despair, under-served. He chuckled. _Head of Temerian Intelligence_. Shit, he was head of fuck all.

Lucky for him he was a wily old rascal who tended to land on his feet.

He shifted uncomfortably when Rusa laughed on seeing Bea slap a customer before booting him out the door.

"Unsuccessful flirtation," Rusa mused, eyes dancing at the excitement. "She'd make a good enforcer, wouldn't she? Could form an alliance with _Crippled Kate's_ to protect the girls from unsavoury characters such as yourself."

It dawned on Thaler then that he was forever a man with a motive. It was inevitable in his line of work. The benefits of Rusa's sincerity could be invaluable. For him, for Temeria. Honour among thieves had become a thing of the past. The turbulent political climate of the Northern Realms created a mire of false promises and casual betrayals. But this didn't have to be the case. To outwit your opponents, you need to change the game.

"Should mention that to her," mumbled Rusa. She looked at Thaler expectantly.

It was settled. He'd provide the girl with the tools needed to navigate the underworld and the rest would write itself. With a little guidance, she proved herself more than capable at Henrietta's. He returned a toothy grin and hastily shoved a small but incessant prick of conscience to the back of his mind.

"I believe St. Gregory's Bridge is closed," Thaler said with a wink. "Not the best source of information you got there."

Rusa's cheeks reddened, previously suppressed tongue-lashing returning with a vengeance. Thaler indulged her. She held out for this long after all.

She was barely able to squeeze the words through her teeth. "Oh, you believe, do you?" He dodged an incoming projectile. "Well, _I_ believe you're full of—"

The spy surrendered his hands. "It's all about perspective, love. Only an obstacle if you make it one."

"A noble sentiment."

Thaler made to adjust his monocle and grimaced. Naked, that's how he felt. And without the pleasurable side to boot. All thanks to the small fist balled up next to a sinister looking knife across the table. The expression on her face lingered somewhere between anger and resignation. She breathed heavily through her nose. For the first time, Thaler truly took in her appearance. Dark rings under the eyes, green contrasting sharply with reddish eyelids, cheeks further hollowed since their initial encounter. He gave her a subtle once-over and noted no change in weight.

"You been sleepin'?" he asked and Rusa smiled tightly.

"The bridge. I need to cross it."

"Do you?"

Rusa inhaled slowly. "You know, for a master spy you're a deep sleeper and I'm not adverse to murdering old men."

"Appreciate the honesty." Thaler rubbed his hands together. "So, to business. You need to reach the Isle but the bridge is closed. What are your options?"

"Swim," she blurted. "Underwater. Possibly die in the process."

Thaler shrugged. "A risk's a risk."

Rusa could have laughed. Temerian through and through was old Thaler. An odd surge of pride coursed through her.

"Force my way across," she continued. "Barge through the guard and demand an audience with their superior. Most definitely die in the process."

The spymaster returned a solemn nod. "Left Vernon behind for a reason, love. What else?"

"Enlist help. Get information"

That got the old man's attention. Thaler sat back, curious as to her train of thought.

"I imagine even holy men have to eat and drink. Who transports goods across the bridge?" Rusa frowned, ideas bouncing erratically. "Wouldn't be surprised if several attend the brothel but I'm not about to get a job at the _Passiflora_. Bound to be someone there who knows a way across, though."

Not precisely what he had in mind. Then again, what _he_ had in mind verged on downright lunacy. Compared to his idea, swimming underwater sounded positively sane. But where was the lesson in that? Skip the swimming, dive in the deep end, stay afloat. Seemed reasonable. And, he reminded himself, a sure-fire way to ingratiate Rusa into Novigrad's bowels. A foothold in Novigrad would benefit Thaler. As in Temeria. A foothold in Novigrad would benefit Thaler and Temeria.

Again, the pesky slither of conscience. It was a withered old thing, dry and prune-like, but a semblance of morality remained and it was currently prodding the murkier areas of Thaler's mind with a sharp stick. The struggle must have registered on his face for Rusa stopped mid-sentence and gave him a questioning look.

"What's going on in there?"

 _The machinations of a man with nothing to lose._

Thaler chanced it. "I'm going to give you a name."

"Finally!" Rusa released a shaky breath. Too easy. "What's the catch?"

The spy smiled. "Not the King of Beggars…"

"And there it is."

Thaler breathed a dramatic sigh. "Loose lips at _Crippled Kate's_ have been a sound source of intel over the years." He leaned in close and Rusa blanched at the stench of alcohol on his breath. "Word has it our respected Temple Guards got their own fightin' ring on the Isle. Brave citizens of Novigrad cross the bridge come nightfall to test their might against the _holy men._ "

Rusa rolled her eyes at his attempt at a stage whisper. "I'll just go ahead and enter, shall I? Get pummelled close to death then go to the library. 'Founder of the Seraphic Order, give it to me. 'Scuse the severed arm.'" She ignored the cackle across the table. "As you said, the bridge is closed. No fighting tonight."

Thaler was momentarily annoyed. Roche had kept her all to himself. He'd not laughed openly in months even if it was at this poor girl's expense.

"This is Novigrad, girl. Always time for fightin'."

Rusa took the hint. "This ring is sanctioned by the Church?" Thaler dipped his head. She pressed on. "Sanctioned but not organised."

The nerves in Thaler's chest crackled in anticipation. _Last chance, old man, you're sending her down a dark path_. A sinister fucking alleyway, more like it. He ran a hand over his face.

"Who's behind it?"

Barely managing to keep his composure, Thaler replied, "Alonso Wiley. Fighters have access to the bridge but need to bear Wiley's seal as proof. He's ruthless, he's sadistic, and he's your in. A real whoreson and proudly referred to as such." Then, in an absurd attempt to lighten the situation, "Owner of the _Passiflora_ , by the way."

Rusa froze. "If you're suggesting I disguise myself as a lady of the night-"

"Oh, I like that!"

"- you can forget it." A sudden wave of warmth and she was back in the Blue Stripes headquarters in Flotsam. She scrunched her nose. "You Temerian men are all the same. Surely there's another option other than the woman having to hoist up her skirts and breasts and parade around for your amusement."

Thaler set her with a serious stare and sat back. Warnings of ruthlessness and sadism didn't even cause a flinch. "Course there's options, love. Just profferin' the easiest one."

"Proffering, that's a big word. And agree to disagree. There's bound to be an alternative both easier and less degrading. I merely need to get into the _Passiflora_ , not take up residency," replied Rusa and the spymaster was thrilled at her challenging him. The first steps towards standing on her own two feet. Oh, she'd managed well enough in the past but now, in his domain, survival skills she'd honed out there needed some adapting.

Thaler stroked his chin. "You'll need a reason for being there. How to get Wiley on his own, I wonder?"

Rusa held up a hand. "Please, you know exactly how I'm to go about this and are merrily steering the conversation until I reach the conclusion you've already made."

"If you say so."

"Stop it," she snapped. "I know so. I'm more than acquainted with your Temerian cat and mouse techniques."

Thaler ached to call out her hypocrisy, to pull her up on it. The girl sat in front of him, straight backed and rigid, too self-righteous to acknowledge her own alliance with Iorveth. When it came to cat and mouse the elf was in his own league.

He softened and noticed Rusa struggling to keep her shoulders from slumping. The girl was exhausted. And fuck him if he truly thought the cat and mouse techniques deployed by the Aen Seidhe outranked that of the Blue Stripes. Hypocrites.

"The bloody lot of us," he muttered and Rusa yawned, drumming her fingers across the table. Her limbs and eyelids felt equally heavy under the failing light. Bed beckoned. Whether that was an actual bed or some section of floor, she couldn't care less. The only thought that staved off sleep was the fact she hadn't figured out Thaler's plan. She was a stubborn woman and, she had to acknowledge by now, an occasional imbecile with a complete disregard for her own well-being and, well, sleep would have to wait.

"This Alonso Wiley," she said, rubbing her temples. "Does he have any interests other than gambling, fighting, and brothels?"

Thaler's eyes brightened. "Good question. Why do you need to know?"

Rusa refrained from gritting her teeth. "I need a reason to enter the _Passiflora_ other than paying for their services. I assume Wiley has an office. I'll need to distract him and steal his seal. Sell him something? Relay a message to him?"

Thaler rubbed his hands and slackened his grip on the conversation momentarily.

"A patron of the arts is old Alonso."

Rusa frowned. "What kind of art?"

"All and sundry if rumour's to be believed," replied the spy. He made to run a finger over his monocle and stiffened when he jabbed his eye.

"Well, rumour's all I've got," she continued and dabbed the corner of Thaler's weeping eye with her sleeve. "Literature? Poetry?"

"Both, I'm quite sure."

"Undoubtedly familiar with Dandelion's work then," Rusa mused, encouraged by the small smile crinkling the man's cheeks.

"Oh, undoubtedly."

The two of them fell into a comfortable silence. Rumbles from the card game at the centre table created a dull drone throughout the room, accompanied by a staccato rhythm of clinking glass and sliding chairs. Rusa drifted into an endless stream of unhelpful thoughts. Wiley liked Dandelion. Probably knew him. She liked Dandelion and also knew him. Wiley was a sadistic brute with a penchant for poetry. She was a masochistic quadroon with a tendency to attract trouble wherever she went. And any man that proudly adopted the name of Whoreson was trouble.

There, amidst the din of the Sturgeon, struggling against the flutter of eyelids and sinking of limbs, Rusa made a last-ditch attempt at formulating a plan. Thaler, for his part, could only sit back in surprise. Sure, he led her to this point but she reached her own conclusion. Good thing, too, because he hadn't bothered with the finer details. He provided her with the skeleton and she fleshed it out. Not what he'd have gone for but, to quote his compatriot, the plan had merit. And Thaler was nothing if not adaptable.

Rusa slid off her seat and waved off his approval, adding, "Reconnaissance can wait."

Bea sailed through the crowd and accompanied her upstairs.

The Temerian spymaster was left alone with his thoughts. They were slow, like syrup, melting into the corners of a mind desperate for sleep. But Thaler had an engagement. Sleep would have to wait.

* * *

Walking through daytime Novigrad with Bea as a guide was an unforgettable experience. A shame, really, because Rusa's third run-in with a lusty sailor had her longing to erase the morning completely and return to bed. She had the room to herself, after all. Thaler's empty bed palette sat unused on the other side of the room. Another round with Nettie. Rusa shuddered.

Practically begging Bea to take a detour away from the docks served little purpose. For every well-meaning denizen, there were three shadowy figures skulking along the alleys, hunched over with hands in pockets, eyes peering over the high collar of their great coat. Rusa considered purchasing similar apparel so as to fit in. She certainly wasn't doing a good job of it, currently walking arm-in-arm with the _Sturgeon's_ busty redhead. Dare she admit to herself that the stroll felt oddly pleasurable? A casual jaunt through Hierarch Square under the warm sun sprinkled with the occasional abuse hurled at them from the alcoves.

The purpose of their morning walk was simple. _Vivaldi Bank_. Rusa hadn't forgotten her conversation with Dandelion back in _The Cauldron_ about Vergen's need for gold and a particularly frugal prince. If she managed to successfully appeal to Alannah D'arcy then Vergen needed to make room for new recruits. Temporary housing, a solid training arena, an overhaul of the stables, new weaponry. With a retinue of Mahakaman's finest dwarfs currently holed up in Vergen with naught to do but await Henselt's move, the construction should be completed in no time. She recalled, too, her conversation with Roche. Gold needed to secure allies against Henselt. There would be plenty leftover.

According to Bea, Vimme Vivaldi was a "real piece of work". Rusa waited for some insight but merely received:

"As stubborn as they come," Bea insisted before feigning interest in a flower stall off to the side. Rusa eyed the dwarf who was busy weighing gold bars at a makeshift desk outside the front window of the bank. The satin blue cape complimented a puffy gold undershirt whilst a white cravat tucked neatly under his bushy grey beard. He shot Rusa an imperious glare over his reading glasses then returned to his work. Rusa steeled herself. The dwarf only resembled Zoltan in height.

"My name is Rusa Elyot of Cintra and I wish to draw funds from a family bank account."

Several moments passed before he raised his head. Vimme removed his glasses, squinted, then slowly got to his feet. He leant against the front of the desk and folded his stubby arms.

"You do, do you? There be just one problem, missy." He turned out his palms and shrugged. "Yer got no proof yer who yer say yer are, lass, so mind yer be off with yer, yer hear?

If not for previous experience with some of the thickest dwarven brogue this side of Continent, Rusa would have surrendered then and there. Having waded through the bog that was Zoltan Chivay's ale-soaked ramblings, Vivaldi was a cinch.

"What kind of proof?" she asked, making her presence felt under the awning. A quick glance inside the bank, a small 'hm', and she joined Vimme at the desk. The dwarf grunted into his cravat and acted thoroughly engrossed in a scuffle happening on the far side of the square.

"Papers, lass. Proof of birth, proof of lineage, proof yer not some ne'er-do-well off the street." Vimme gave her the once-over - an amusing sight given the height difference - and mumbled something under his breath. "Can't help yer if yer can't supply the papers."

Rusa changed tack. Appealing to the dwarf's sensitivities was unappealing in itself but certainly worth a shot. Straight for jugular, emotionally-speaking. She racked her brain; clinging to any shred of vague memory worth exploiting. There was something. A memory she didn't care to dig up. It was foolish to think it wouldn't come to this. But desperate times... Careful not to step into the fire, she skirted around the edge.

"During the Siege of Cintra, before we were confined to the keep, my mother risked her life to see our funds safely transferred from the city treasury into trustworthy hands. The name Vivaldi carries weight throughout the entire Continent." Appealing to his pride surely couldn't hurt. Rusa continued, "For seven nights, she journeyed through the catacombs and sewers to reach the treasury unseen. The Black Ones surrounded the city. One false move and my mother would have met a fate worse than death."

Vimme seemed only slightly less interested in the rest of the Square.

"Nilfgaard had mages, of course. Powerful ones. Able to sense any use of magic within miles. But mother had no choice. She created the portal. Transferred the gold by hand with the help of someone on the other side." Rusa stood with her back to him and gazed into the Square. Her shoulders sagged. "I believe it was you on the other side, Vimme Vivaldi. You may not know me but you do yourself a great disservice pretending not to know my mother."

Rusa heard the dwarf suck in a ragged breath. She held her own, tight within her chest, afraid of what might happen if it escaped. Bea's red hair became a focal point among the crowd. It bobbed up and down with a lightness Rusa envied. She raked her fingers across her scalp and traced an invisible outline of Roche's scar.

"Yer best come inside, lass," grumbled Vimme and Rusa took a moment to compose herself.

It was late afternoon when Rusa left the bank. Bea was more than likely back at _The_ _Sturgeon_ , Vimme was closing early for the day, and she could only guess at Thaler's whereabouts. After negotiating the transfer to Vergen with the help of Igor Vivaldi's men, Rusa pocketed a small sum and spent a large part of the afternoon searching for suitable clothing for the evening's escapades. Something elegant yet worthy of the battlefield. An awkward combination. She was to pose as a scholar from Oxenfurt writing a biography on Dandelion. Alonso Wiley, longtime patron of the bard, was to be asked for a small interview regarding his favourite works. Wiley, delighted at the prospect and, she tried to convince herself, inevitably distracted when discussing Dandelion's poetic prowess, would allow Rusa to leave the office unharmed and in possession of the seal. Minor details such as her complete ignorance of Dandelion's repertoire, how to actually avoid the fighting ring, find the library, find the information, then make her way back from the isle were to be ironed out in the process. Rusa had to give herself credit. As harebrained a scheme as it was, she was staying afloat in the deep end. No thanks to the Temerian spymaster who'd done a disappearing act. As if on cue, Rusa made a note of the oculist as she passed through Glory Lane.

Business at _The Sturgeon_ seemed to swing between downright dead and every man and his dog. It was currently the latter as Rusa squeezed her way through the throng and up to her lodgings. Thaler's bed remained unused whilst hers had been made with extra effort. The sheets were clean, the blanket brushed, and a small mountain thistle rested on the pillow. So as to not disturb the masterpiece, Rusa shoved Thaler's linen off to the side and emptied the contents of her knapsack. Garments of deep amber and royal blue formed a peculiar ensemble that more resembled an assassin's armour of choice than a scholar's robes. Rusa reasoned with herself. The road from Oxenfurt to Novigrad was perilous and she travelled alone. She fastened the side buckles of her hooded tunic and let it fall above fitting trousers that tucked into heeled boots. The looking glass revealed more than she wished to see. For the first time in months, she donned clothing of her own. For the first time in months, she saw herself honestly; a woman alone, confused, and head over heels in a steaming pile of political shit. A knock at the door sounded Bea's offering of evening tea. Dusting her tunic, Rusa whispered a quick "for Vergen" and asked the redhead to save for later. This plan would work or fail. She longed for some advice.

 _Well, you're fucked, either way._

* * *

 _The Passiflora_ pointed out to her during the morning walk was different at night. In the cold air of morning, not a sound escaped beneath the gilded doors and painted shutters. But here, under the night sky, the elegant brothel in Novigrad's equally elegant Gildorf District teemed with an energy that Rusa had to admit held a certain allure. The courtyard was fragrant and lush, the double wooden staircase carved with delicate engravings as it led to the front entrance. Rusa loosened her grip on the parchment she'd borrowed from _The Sturgeon's_ manager; a stocky, pimpled woman who begrudged Bea's popularity but delighted in the steady stream of clientele.

There was no one manning the doors, which added to the feeling of discretion. Rusa frowned as she entered a foyer rich with silks and tapestries, dark oak paneling on the walls, mosaic tiles patterned across the flooring. A place like this without muscle would be ripe for plundering. All a facade.

Courtesans danced in every corner as men and women watched on. A minute of observation and Rusa determined that there was a no-touch policy until negotiations were finalised and coin was handed over. She hadn't been to _Crippled Kate's_ , didn't want to visit _Crippled Kate's_ , but wondered if _Passiflora's_ women were treated better on principle. The goods must appear 'untouched' so as to satisfy the wealthy. The taste of bile swept across her tongue when a particularly beautiful she-elf was propositioned by an overweight noble with hair so slicked with grease it posed a fire hazard.

A buxom woman dressed in a beautiful gown that made Rusa's Cintran wardrobe fit for peasantry waltzed across the room. A smile so large it managed to manoeuvre her intricate coiffure simultaneously. The woman placed a bejewelled hand on the small of Rusa's back.

"Welcome to _The Passiflora,_ darling. Angeline Vivant, Madame of our humble boudoir." They paused at an ornate writing desk. Angeline gestured Rusa to sit. "What do you desire?"

Rusa's tongue turned to lead. "I, uh –"

"Allow me to offer some suggestions," Angeline cut in, smile seemingly glued to her powdered face. She pointed to a brunette dancing sensually to the right. "Narcissa's a local favourite. Nothing too exotic for that one. Between you and me, darling—" she tapped her nose—"you seem the type who likes it rough. That be the case, Narcissa's your girl. Silk scarves? Toys and whips? Here at _The Passiflora_..."

Rusa fell into some kind of trance. Angeline's lilted voice was honey to her ears. That, or the heady mixture of perfumes was dulling her senses. The parchment crinkled under her fingertips and she batted off the languid haze.

Rusa cleared her throat. "Here on business, I'm afraid." Angeline's smile noticeably faltered. Narcissa, who seemed to have overheard them, looked dejected. "I've travelled from Oxenfurt. I'm a scholar at the Academy, currently writing a biography on the famous bard, Dandelion. I'm lead to believe your overseer, Alonso Wiley, is a patron of his work and I'd like to interview your boss, learn of his experiences with Dandelion and collect his valuable opinions on art in general."

Rusa held her breath. To say that went smoothly would be an overstatement. Angeline raised a finely arched brow. Several painstaking moments later and Rusa was told to take a seat in an ornate office located on the upper floor.

First impressions of Alonso Wiley deemed him a man highly aware of his power and not afraid to wield it. He'd barely entered the office when a young errand runner was told to "fuck off back to the gutter where I found you."

Rusa sat with her hands in her lap. Alonso stared down at her. It was a stalemate only broken by the crashing of a dinner tray down the hallway and Wiley letting loose a string of expletives that outshone even Zoltan after twenty ales. The man turned on her, a flick of a strained smile, then took his seat in the decadent armchair opposite. Tattooed hands ran through the curtain of oily black hair that tapered towards the neck. A solid but short man with tree trunks for limbs, he unbuttoned his waistcoat without moving his gaze from the woman in front of him. Rusa shifted uncomfortably. She was only a scholar, after all, and needed to keep up appearances. Several gold-capped teeth gleamed as he smiled.

"I make you nervous, girl?"

"Sir, I apologise for the unexpected arrival—"

Alonso waved her off, his meaty arm landing with a thud on the table.

"You got a name?"

Rusa bit the inside of her cheek and replied, without thinking, "Henrietta."

There would be, at the very least, a record of a Henrietta attending Oxenfurt Academy.

Wiley's eyes bored into her. Sizing up, looking through, sorting out. His smile was replaced by a grim line.

"Interesting. A name intimately familiar to the very bard you're researching."

Rusa scrambled to catch on. The Cauldron, Dandelion, Toussaint, Duchess...

"Ah, yes. His little weasel," she replied with an air of mystery that covered her genuine fear at being asked the details. Tuning out of Dandelion's musings was shaping up to be a regrettable mistake. The air was heavy as Wiley prolonged the silence. Then,

"Never seen a scholar looking like she was to steal into the night come the next breath."

Rusa kept his gaze. "I travel alone and dress for practicality over formality. No offence."

Wiley's bushy eyebrows shot up. "None taken." His eyes raked over her attire, lingering on the hood. "Just not acquainted with scholars appearing so... elusive."

Rusa bowed her head and apologised.

"It wasn't my intent to appear suspicious."

"Ah, wasted opportunity!"

Rusa did a poor job hiding her confusion as Wiley crossed over to a bookshelf and dusted a lengthy tome.

"' _Elusive_ '", he stressed, thumbing the pages. "One of Dandelion's more famous ballads. Believed to be about the Duchess but he's never confirmed this. As you already know." Wiley watched for a reaction then shrugged, adding, "Also, a favourite of mine."

Rusa barely concealed her disbelief when he placed a hand on his chest, spat some phlegm into a worn handkerchief, and regaled her with a recital.

 _O'er glistening roofs you float  
_ _Through lily-strewn rivers you dive  
_ _Yet one day I will know your truths  
_ _If only I am still alive_

Wiley bowed his head in silence. Stunned, Rusa could only applaud. This Whoreson was a walking contradiction. Hardened crime lord with a dash of romantic troubadour on the side. He tossed the tome onto the desk. _The Adversities of Loving_. To the side of the book, the stamp and the wax simmering above a candle.

Wiley placed a heavy hand on her shoulder and looked down at her. His eyes visibly darkened along with the atmosphere.

"You're here to ask questions, I suggest you start asking."

Rusa hardly opened her mouth when there was a hard rap on the door, followed by the shirtless body of a man tumbling to the floor. A soldier booted the man's rear and sent him flying towards Rusa's feet. Hands gripped her ankles for support and she sank back into her chair as scabby fingers slithered up her tunic.

"Found him outside Rosemary and Thyme," said the soldier. "Left for dead this time."

The soldier removed his bludgeon and smashed it into the man's ribs. An animalistic gurgle echoed through the room and Rusa jumped up, disgusted by the open brutality.

"What do you think you're doing!"

Wiley lounged in his armchair, unconcerned. The poor sod on the floor curled into a ball and stared vacantly at the carpet. The soldier sneered at Rusa, aiming the bludgeon in her direction.

"Leave it alone, girl, if you know what's good for you," he said. "This scum ain't worth defending-"

"That's not for you to decide," shot Rusa and Alonso smiled at his desk. The soldier was taken aback. A purplish hue crept onto his cheeks.

"You'll silence this bitch, Whoreson, if you wish to keep her in one piece."

Alonso shrugged. "I'm unsure of that myself, Marak. Come." He flipped the soldier a crown and gestured toward the door. "For your faithful service."

Wiley took his seat, demanded Rusa join him, then sent a disdainful look at the pile of snivelling mess on the floor. Similar tattoos, noted Rusa, and then the energy in the room thickened.

"My son, Cyprian." Alonso sniffed into his tumbler. "Otherwise known as Whoreson Junior."

Cyprian greeted her with a loud snore.

"A fucking layabout waste of fucking space," said Alonso and Rusa was careful not to show her discomfort. A son was a son, useless layabout or not.

"You think me unkind," he continued. "So you should. You're unacquainted with Cyprian, after all, and merely wished to defend a vulnerable man. Can't fault you there, Henrietta."

Rusa registered the name a moment too late. Alonso smiled.

"To business then."

Rusa blushed and grabbed a quill. Fortunately or unfortunately, Alonso saw fit to start things off.

"I first came across The Crimson Avenger when - the fuck's going on out there!"

A shattering of glass and stampede of boots sounded down the hall. Alonso jabbed a stubby finger to Rusa's chest - "Wait here" - then disappeared onto the landing.

Rusa wasted little time and fumbled with the wax before tipping it onto the parchment. She stamped it hard and fast, vaguely aware of the absurd image of a wild boar appearing on the seal. The raucous in the hall meant a flurry of bodies and a higher chance of losing herself in the crowd. Cyprian let out a ragged breath as she went for the door. Locked. The whoreson! On cue, the younger started coming to. He pulled himself upright, swayed from side to side, then fell and hit his head against the wall. Rusa recoiled at the crunch of his skull. Cyprian was out for the night. She jimmied the window and caught sight of the lattice work to the left. A fair climb down to the lower courtyard but manageable.

"Fucking whore... get over here and fucking..."

Rusa felt her ankle almost snap from its socket. A newly conscious Cyprian pulled her off the sill and threw her against the desk. Rusa heard the telltale unbuckling of a trouser belt and screamed as a hand clamped down the back of her neck and drove her cheek into the pool of wax.

"Struggling only gets me - oof!"

Cyprian doubled over, hands cupping his groin. Rusa spun around and levelled him with a vicious blow to the temple. She stood over the twitching body. Blood trickled from his ear courtesy of _The Adversities of Loving_.

Rusa stumbled onto the lattice and made hasty work of the climb. Elusiveness be damned, she wanted out. St Gregory's Bridge was manned by a slovenly looking guard and another one urinating over the side. The lout watched her approach and manoeuvred his polearm accordingly.

"Bridge is closed."

Rusa shrunk further into her hood and passed the seal. The guard eyed her suspiciously and tipped the hood with his blade.

"Blimey, looks like you already done enough fightin' tonight."

Rusa scraped the red wax from her cheek and offered him a flimsy explanation about being an assistant at _Books and Scrolls_ in Hierarch Square. She congratulated herself on the lie as she crossed the bridge. Little victories on a night like this. The guard seemed genuinely concerned for her welfare and as Temple Isle approached, Rusa was inclined to agree. The silhouette of the Church spire stood firm against the moonlight. It leered over Novigrad, a beacon of false hope and corrupted faith. There was something sterile about the isle; something untouched and unapproachable that made her long for the pungent warmth of _The Sturgeon_.

A group of men presumably from the city huddled together by an inconspicuous gate under the main building. Fighting ring in the basement, how original, and Rusa shifted her attention to the soft glow of candlelight coming from an annex on the other side. Keeping to the bushes, she peered through the stained glass window and noted the hazy outline of tables and shelving. How to enter the library without accessing the main Church created quite the predicament. No lattice work to climb here and, panicking, Rusa's chest tightened at the thought of having to participate in the fighting ring simply to get in the building. Cursing Thaler eased the tension somewhat. Imagining her hands around his scrawny neck was enough to see her scouting the premises for another way in.

"You hungry, girl?"

Rusa launched herself into the bramble as a small hatch opened under a side window. A piece of meat presumably attached to a human hand dangled over the ground. The owner of the ringed hand remained out of sight as a cat trotted forward and sniffed the offering appreciatively.

"There's a-girl. G'night."

The hatch closed with a soft click.

Rusa squirmed through the bush, wincing at the thorns stuck in her palms and face. Satiated, the cat considered the newcomer. The subsequent mewling around Rusa's boots indicated the feline's approval.

"Sorry, girl - no time for play."

The creature's judgment was palpable as Rusa picked open the hatch, inhaled deeply, and squeezed her way through. A tight fit, suddenly tighter due to the claw digging into her calf muscle. Rusa balked and shook herself free, the momentum causing the rest of her body to catch up as she collapsed onto a pile of books. She kicked the hatch closed. Silence. The odd rustle of breeze against the window here and there. A side door was slightly ajar and housed what looked like the foot of a bed. The library was empty. Whoever fed the cat was asleep.

"Seraphic Order," Rusa muttered and crossed over to a random shelf. _Plague and Poetry, Drowner Anatomy, Kovir Delicacies._ Unless a plague caused a surge in Drowner activity and Kovir's response was to eat them, this shelf wasn't exactly themed. She tried her luck elsewhere in an aisle marked 'History'. _The Secrets of Sodden, Lyria's Last Stand..._

 _Orders of the Divine._

Rusa hitched the leather bound tome under her arm and scattered the contents of the nearest table. Running a finger down the initial notes, she saw it.

 _The Order of Friars Minor, also known as The Seraphic Order, is a religious order founded by Francis of Alness in 1209. Heavily criticised by The Church of Eternal Fire, Francis is considered a saint by opponents of..._

For the first time that night, Rusa let herself smile. So, our King of Beggars shared the name of a Saint particularly despised by The Eternal Fire.

A scuffle of feet signalled company. A scruffy man in a torn nightshirt approached from the side door. Their eyes met. Rusa sat frozen, legs heavy, stomach squirming.

"Mother?"

The man removed his sleeping cap and smiled. At her? Through her. Rusa held her breath.

"Mother, come to bed, you'll catch a cold."

He offered his hand from the doorway. The same ring as the cat-lover and, Rusa surmised, the Temple Librarian. He was unsteady on his feet and glassy-eyed. Rusa recalled one night when Boussy suffered night terrors and 'awoke' somewhere between the dream world and reality. The boy was found sleeping in the kitchens next to the dogs.

"Mother, please."

Bloody hell. Rusa wasn't adverse to knocking a second man unconscious tonight but this would be significantly less satisfying than the ordeal with Cyprian. The librarian shuffled towards her, eyes vacant. Rusa's fingers tightened around the spine of _Divine_. Not as hefty as Dandelion's anthology but enough to knock a sleepless man firmly back to sleep.

"Mother?"

"In a minute, darling!"

The space between them warped and crackled with anticipation. Time stretched on as Rusa desperately sought a name in the papers scattered at the front desk. The librarian stood lifeless where she'd left him.

Something, anything, an official letter, a signature. A hasty scrawl pinned to a stack of texts caught her eye.

 _To be returned to Aldert Geert, Assistant Professor of Contemporary History at Oxenfurt Academy and acting Temple Librarian in Novigrad City._

A woman with nothing to lose is not only dangerous and wild but resourceful beyond measure.

"Back to bed, Aldert, I won't be long."

A pregnant pause. Then,

"Promise you'll come inside, Mother."

Rusa rolled her eyes and tried her luck.

"Already here, darling." She ushered him to the side door. "See? Safe and sound. Thank you for keeping the fire burning."

Rusa swore she heard Thaler squawking in the distance.

Aldert mumbled his good nights as she readjusted his sleeping cap. Rusa followed the click of the side door with a heavy sigh of relief. Unable to fathom the stacking absurdities since leaving _The Sturgeon_ , she rushed to the hatch and practically propelled herself into the earthy moss of the flowerbed. The cat was gone. Rusa followed her example and retraced her path through the bushes, pausing by the riverbank. Crossing the bridge posed a problem. Clearly, the fighting ring missed the opportunity of her presence. And now, as she spotted the ramshackle fishing boat moored to the bank, she chose to follow up on a previous idea discarded long ago.

"Lucky Sendler; unlucky Aldert," she said, noting _a Property of Aldert Geert_ etched into the panelling. The icy water was an assault on the senses as Rusa pushed the boat and waded up to her waist. She'd barely swung her leg over the side when an arrow pierced the water's surface. A chilling voice sent further shivers up her spine.

"Out. Now."

Two men dressed in black uniform dragged Rusa onto the bank and held an arm each. The third individual, the one who spoke, was an eagle-eyed sort with grey hair. Clothed in a similar uniform laced with white trimming, he leaned into her hair, inhaled slowly, then lead the walk back to the bridge. He clasped his hands behind his back.

"Explain."

Rusa made to move and was unceremoniously dumped to the ground, face scraping across stone.

"Bind her."

Rough hands twisted her arms behind her back. A heavy boot thundered down on the back of her neck. In a daze, she registered another voice. A familiar one. She chanced a look up. Alonso Wiley sauntered across the bridge, arms outstretched.

"What's all this, Chappelle?"

Another set of boots came into view. The thug on top of her brought her upright.

Alonso's expression was unreadable.

"Mistreating one of my fighters?"

Chappelle snorted. "Perhaps you need to be more selective. Found her by the riverbank trying to escape. Nothing but a coward. Not that it's any of your business, _Whoreson_."

"Ah, but it is my business. Novigrad is _my_ business." Wiley fingered the cuff of Chappelle's blazer and smirked. "Too caught up in secret service duties to remember how it all works round here?"

That these two men despised each other was evident. And Rusa was caught in the middle without either one as an ally.

"We have reason to suspect she broke into the library," replied Chappelle stiffly, venom lacing his words.

Alonso laughed. "Seeking inspiration, I imagine. Prose and bloodshed go hand in hand—a thing of beauty it is; a spectacle of sacred word and severed head. Marvellous."

Chappelle waved him off and began the march back to the Church, Rusa in tow. She glanced beseechingly at Alonso who added, "Young Menge's awfully interested in leading the Temple Guard. Got a loyal following, too."

Chappelle hesitated. Alonso's wide mouth stretched into a predatory smile.

"That's your role, ain't it?" he said. "The fanatical whoreson will gladly see you burned at the pyre if it meant serving The Church. May I remind you who's keeping the pup on a leash?"

Chappelle turned on his heel and pointed an accusing finger.

"You're one to talk, Whoreson," he spat. "Mark my words, it'll be your own flesh and blood who knifes you in the back. I long for the day."

Alonso stared out at the river and rocked on his heels, thumbing the chain of his pocket watch. "Cyprian's under control. Not least for the fact that that woman right there smashed half his brains out."

Rusa's eyes burned a hole in the paving. Alonso was getting impatient. He held out a hand.

"I'll be taking the girl."

Finally, Chappelle signalled his men and sneered at the sickening sight of the crime lord striding back to his city, the woman stumbling after him like a wounded dog.

Outside _The Passiflora,_ Wiley gazed up at the night sky. Rusa skirted the flowerbed and eyed him warily.

"Got what you came for then?"

She held her tongue. Merely stared at the man lighting a cigar, completely serene.

"I should thank you for dealing with Cyprian in such a fitting manner."

A smile filtered through the smoke. Alonso climbed the stairs and leant over the banister.

"You'll find the Grove near the theatre in Butcher's Yard. May I suggest taking some classes while you're there?"

Rusa was at a loss. "I—"

"Bedlam's sure to be expecting you. Heard you even figured out the password," Wiley said and tossed his cigar at her feet. He seemed at pains to keep his expression neutral. "Perhaps we'll meet again, Rusa Elyot. Give Thaler my regards. The debt is paid so he can fuck off on his merry way back to Temeria come morning."

Rusa simply stood in the garden of _The Passiflora._ Thoughts, hazy and fractured, drifted to the delightful memory of punching Thaler in the face. She savoured the moment. The fragrance of the flowerbed grew sour and putrid. Speaking of which, she'd a King to track down.

* * *

A/N: Phew! Thanks everyone. It's been difficult being unable to write as much as I used to. I hope you enjoyed - please let me know your thoughts! Are we liking the Rusa/Thaler dynamic? Are we missing the dynamic between her and someone else? Roche? Iorveth? Mmmm. Juicy.


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